Theft of Reason
by Grissomgal71
Summary: COMPLETE. It starts out as a seemingly routine case, but then Grissom is attacked at the crime scene. Could Grissom himself be the key to finding the killer's identity?
1. The Attack

**Disclaimer**:  Sadly, I don't own anything related to CSI (unless you count my t-shirts, mugs, DVDs, comic books, etc J).  All the characters belong to CBS, Jerry Bruckheimer, Alliance Atlantis, etc.  The writers and the actors are just so good that the characters they bring to life insist on running around in my head and doing things that I then need to write down J

**Title**:  Theft of Reason****

**Author**:  Grissomgal71****

**Rating**:  PG-13

**Category**:  Angst/Mystery

**A/N**:  This is my first attempt at CSI fanfic.  I hope you all enjoy it. Reviews would be most appreciated.  I have to thank Angelia, Ginger, and Gus for reading this and pushing me to finish it.  Extra special thanks to Grissom, my wonderful beta reader, who helped make this story the best that it could be.  I also want to offer my gratitude to all the great CSI fanfic writers out there who continue to create amazing stories that I love to read, and for inspiring me to write my own J

**Chapter 1:  The Attack**

_"No passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as fear."          --Edmund Burke_

The dark-haired young woman walked slowly up to the front of the house.  It was 9:30 at night, and the outside lights weren't on.  That was the first sign to Veronica that something was wrong.  As she crept closer to the stoop, squinting in the dimness, she noticed that the front door was open a few inches.  With her heart rate shooting up and her mouth going dry, she pushed the door open enough so she could slip inside.  "Kim?" she called softly, her voice echoing in the darkness.

When she got no response, she stepped further into the living room, and taking a shaky breath, cried out more loudly, "Kim!"  Standing in the eerie silence, Veronica could feel that something was wrong.  She flipped on the standing lamp closest to the door, and looked around.  Finding nothing out of the ordinary, she moved toward the stairs leading to Kim's bedroom.

With each step Veronica ascended, adrenaline pumped harder through her body.  She heard the blood rushing through her ears as she reached the doorway of the bedroom.  Approaching the room from one side and peeking in warily, Veronica saw a limp, white arm hanging off the foot of the bed.  Taking a tentative step closer, she also spied two legs hanging over the side.  Keeping her eyes low, so she wouldn't have to look at the rest of what she knew was on the surface of the bed, the young woman turned away from the horrifying sight, raised a hand to cover her mouth, and ran out of the house.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Gil Grissom pulled up in front of Kimberly Miller's roomy suburban home.  He climbed out of his dark blue Tahoe carrying his large silver field kit, and headed for Captain Jim Brass.

Brass was talking to a shaken-looking young woman as Grissom approached.  "Thank you, Ms. Wilkinson, that's all for now.  If you don't mind, this nice officer will take you back to the police station for a few more questions," the captain told her, flipping closed the notebook he had been writing in.  Turning away from her, he took Grissom's arm and led the criminalist away as he said, "Evening, Gil."

"What have we got, Jim?" the CSI asked.

He glanced at the notebook quickly.  "Victim's name is Kimberly Miller, age 26.  She was found in her bedroom by Veronica Wilkinson over there."  He pointed at the woman he had been speaking with.  "The girls worked together at Starr Telemarketing.  When the vic didn't show up for work tonight, Veronica called, got no answer, and then came over to check.  The paramedics have already pronounced."

"Cause of death?" Grissom wondered.

"Looks like strangulation."

"Thanks, Jim," he said, then turned as two more members of his team pulled up, climbing out of their SUVs.  When they reached him, he filled them in as they all moved as one toward the front of the house, "Body's in the bedroom, possible strangulation.  Woman ID'd as Kimberly Miller, 26.  No witnesses; the vic's coworker called it in."

Grissom shined his flashlight over the doorknob, locks, and side of the half-open front door.  "No forced entry," he reported.

Sara Sidle nodded her head, agreeing with his findings.  "That means she knew her attacker, or he appeared to be harmless or trustworthy, or…"

"…the killer had a key," Nick Stokes finished for her.  He began looking around in the dirt and shrubs to see if a spare key had been hidden somewhere.  Maybe the killer had put it back on the way out, or had accidentally dropped it.  He continued his search as the others entered the dimly-lit house.

The tall lamp to the right of the doorway that Veronica had turned on still provided the only illumination in the whole house.  The bright orbs of the CSIs' flashlights bounced all around the large living room, sometimes meshing together and then becoming separate rings again.  Nothing seemed out of place down there.

Grissom moved his flashlight and traced it up the staircase to the left, which he realized must lead to the bedrooms.  Nick had reappeared next to him after his unsuccessful search for clues outside.

"Sara, you take the door," he instructed.  "Photos and prints.  Let's see if anyone besides our vic and her friend touched that knob tonight."

"You got it," she told him, closing the back of the camera over the fresh roll of film she'd just snapped inside.  She clicked the shutter a couple of times, advancing the film to its starting point.

Grissom had turned away and was heading up the stairs.  "Nick, you're with me," he said.

Reaching the bedroom just to the left of the stair landing, they walked in silently, stepping carefully so as not to disturb any possible evidence.  Nick started snapping photos with his camera immediately, the flash creating blinding bursts in the darkness.

The victim lay almost peacefully on the bed, her wayward limbs hanging limply over the edges the only sign that she wasn't just catching a nap on top of the covers.  Grissom got closer, shining his light on her face.  Her eyes were open, and she looked shocked, as most victims do.  Grissom's light trailed over her neck and two obvious, angry-purple bruises shown clearly; they were separate and distinct, but overlapped near the center.  It was also clear what they were impressions of.

"Handprints," he said to Nick, indicating the victim's neck with a jerk of his chin.

Nick's flashlight joined his on the woman's throat.  "No ligature marks.  The guy just used his hands."

"He grabbed her from the front," Grissom added.  He held up his hands, thumbs toward himself, fingers curled on the opposite side, as if they were around an imaginary victim.  "See the overlapping thumb prints?"

Nick nodded and then took some more pictures.

"The circumference of her neck was too small for his hand span," Grissom continued, "so he had to lay his thumbs one over the other on the front of her throat."

"I'll take a measurement," Nick offered, letting the camera lay around his neck and pulling a tape measure out of his kit.

As he worked, Grissom played his flashlight along the victim's torso.  She was wearing a silk shirt, short black skirt, pantyhose, and high heels.  Her clothing was impeccably neat and arranged.  The shirt was smoothly tucked in; there were no runs in the stockings and no scuff marks on the patent leather shoes.  He moved the light back to her face, this time noticing that her makeup was also neatly applied.  Her wavy blond hair was mostly unmussed, spreading out around her head on the bedcovers.

Grissom drifted his circle of illumination down her arm and onto the hand that was hanging off the end of the bed.  He hunkered down for a closer look, studying her fingers and long, painted nails, his head tilted to the left.  Her fingers were slightly curled, and he could see the bright red polish on her nails.  The painted surfaces were shiny and unmarred, the nails themselves perfectly manicured without a nick or chip evident anywhere.  Standing, Grissom turned to the dark-haired man next to him.  "What do you notice, Nick?"

Nick straightened up as he checked out the room.  He knew Grissom was asking his opinion to teach him, not to test him, but Nick still felt a nervous twinge of anxiety about providing the "right" answer; he always wanted to prove to his supervisor that he was a good investigator.

Nick took in everything around them, and a deep breath for good measure.  Then he started slowly, "No visible defensive wounds on her hands, no indication of blood or skin under her fingernails, no noticeable accumulations of pulled-out hairs.  The bed, room, and her clothing are perfectly neat—no indication of a struggle at all.  The vic's briefcase and handbag are laid out on the bed as if she were about to head out."  He concentrated for a moment, then broke out in a famous Nick Stokes grin—the kind that could charm the birds out of the trees.  Nick didn't notice it as he spoke, but a small smile had appeared on Grissom's face at the same moment, "She definitely knew her murderer.  She was shocked at what he started to do, but she was docile because she was familiar with him, and didn't think he would ever do anything to hurt her.  He took her by surprise, but she knew him."

"Very good, Nicky," Grissom commented.  "Kimberly Miller _knew her attacker, now let's see how the evidence can help us get to know him, too."_

Nick nodded, and he began searching around for physical evidence of the attacker.  He tried to think about places the killer would have made contact with, and possibly left a trace of himself behind.  Nick's eyes lit on the bedroom door, and he knelt down, examining the knob.  He grabbed a brush and some fingerprint powder and got to work.

Sara came up the stairs.  "I'm done with the front door," she reported to Grissom.

"Good," he said.  "Why don't you go back down and check around the outside of the house?  After that, how about checking out the rooms on the first floor?"

 "Okay," she replied, turning around.

Grissom went back to examining the body, and Nick continued collecting evidence from around the room.  He didn't seem to be finding much—just a few fingerprints that were scattered around.  Pulling a lighted magnifier out of his kit, Grissom began looking for anything interesting on the victim's body or clothes.  As he moved down Kimberly Miller's still form, he found very little to lift.  There was a hair or two near her shoulders that appeared to belong to the victim herself.  He saw no fibers, until he backtracked and looked just under the hem of the victim's skirt.  Two thin black threads were resting there on her nylon-covered thigh.

Grissom used a tape-lifter to grab the fibers, and then folded the clear adhesive onto the white cardboard backing for a better look.  He held it up and tilted it around, trying to catch the best light.  "Got two black threads here," he told his colleague.

Nick came over to inspect them, examining them under the strong magnifier.  "Doesn't look like cotton," he commented to Grissom.  "Wool maybe?"

Grissom squinted at the small threads.  "Could be.  I'll take it back to Trace."

Nick nodded, and continued looking around.  The room didn't seem to offer them much else.  They called the coroner inside a few minutes later to remove the body, and then they continued their unproductive search for any other clues left in the bedroom.  When they had all collected everything they thought they needed from Kim Miller's house, they piled into their Tahoes and headed back to the lab.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Walking quickly down the hall, Grissom almost ran into Nick and Sara on their way back from the print lab.  "Hey guys," the supervisor said, stopping in front of them.  "Any word on those prints?"

"Yeah, we just came from there," Sara explained.  "Doc Robbins sent over Kim Miller's ten-card, and Jacqui matched one set of the prints I got from the front door to the vic."

"What about the other prints you found on the knob?"

"Unknown," Sara continued.  "No match in AFIS.  But if you ask me, they probably belong to that other woman—the vic's coworker from the scene?  She did admit to Brass that she touched the door to let herself in."

Grissom took that in for a second, looking down, his lips pursed.  "See if Brass can get prints from the coworker for comparison," he said, addressing the two of them as a unit.  "Anything on the bedroom door, Nick?"

"Yeah—the prints I lifted were the vic's," he replied dejectedly.  "So were the others I found around the bedroom.  Sorry, Grissom, we don't seem to have any leads."

"I was heading to the DNA lab to check in with Greg.  Maybe he'll have something for us."

"Okay, fill us in if he comes up with anything," Nick said, as he and Sara continued down the corridor.

Grissom entered the lab, but technician Greg Sanders spoke before Grissom could even utter the question, "I haven't gotten to your stuff yet, Grissom."

Off the supervisor's raised-eyebrow glance of impatient disbelief, the young tech continued, "I'm sorry but I have a huge backlog from days.  They had a case with about twenty DNA samples."

"You put Ecklie's stuff ahead of mine again?"

"I didn't have a choice," Greg replied, more apologetic than defensive now.

"Look, Greg," Grissom began, leaning against the counter on his elbow, "we have only one or two items from our scene for you to analyze."  He reached over to the end of the pile of evidence on the lab table and picked up the tiny number of bindles belonging to the Kimberly Miller case.  "Just a few hairs and two mystery fibers," Grissom finished with a small smile.

Exhaling in defeat, Greg grabbed the envelopes from Grissom's fingers.  "I'll do your stuff next," he promised.

"Thank you, Greg," Grissom said, as he turned away and walked out of the door.

Grissom was certain that they didn't have enough evidence to identify a suspect, let alone convict anyone for the murder of Kimberly Miller.  Even when Greg was finished with his always accurate work in the lab, Grissom knew nothing they had would be probative.  Before stopping by to see Greg, he had already decided to go back to the crime scene himself.  It wasn't that he didn't trust his team—he did, implicitly and always.  It was just that he knew there _had_ to be something they missed.  The killer wasn't a ghost; he had to have left some physical trace behind.  They must have missed it—Grissom himself included—and someone needed to go back and keep searching until they found it; he had elected himself.

On his way out of the criminalistics building, he passed by Catherine Willows coming out of the break room.  Since she was the only member of his team he saw, he decided to give her the message about where he was headed.  "I'm going back to the Kimberly Mille crime scene," he informed her, still moving toward the exit.  "Call or page me if you need me."

"Sure," she promised as she watched him go.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Grissom nodded at the officer stationed in front of the Miller house, as he walked in through the unlocked door.  Leaving the door halfway open, he scanned the dark living room with his flashlight.  Putting down his field kit next to the couch, he snapped on a pair of latex gloves and looked around again, searching for anything his team may have missed on their first sweep of the house.  Something tiny sparkled on the carpet under the beam of Grissom's light, and he squatted down to get a closer look.

Outside, a dark figure melted into the shadowed side of the Miller house.  Officer Jenkins shifted restlessly on the front stoop, and squinted at his watch in the dim glow provided by the streetlight.  _Still three more hours… he thought.  It felt like he had been guarding this crime scene forever, and he still had several hours left on his shift.  The black figure slipped out of the gloom behind Jenkins, and before the officer knew it, something hard connected with his skull and he hit the ground, unconscious._

Grissom was examining the small sequin he had found on the rug, wondering how they had missed it earlier, when he heard a soft swishing behind him.  He spun around, still in a crouched position, and met the intruder's swinging arm as it came around clutching the small blackjack.  The weapon caught Grissom across his left cheek, the impact sending him sprawling backward.  Dazed but hanging onto consciousness, the CSI lay there, blinking up at his attacker.

Because his glasses had flown off when the intruder had hit him, and the blow was so close to his eye, Grissom's vision was less than clear in the darkness.  He could only tell that the man who had attacked him seemed tall, and was dressed totally in black, including a knit ski mask that obscured his face and leather gloves.

The dark man kneeled down and leaned toward Grissom.  He unzipped the criminalist's jacket, and reached for the automatic holstered at his hip.  Before the intruder could grab the gun, Grissom collected himself enough to lash out with a hard kick to the other man's side.  The attacker was knocked off-balance and Grissom was able to flip on top of him.  The CSI grasped desperately for the other's neck, got both hands around it, and began to squeeze, trying to incapacitate him.  The man in black worked to pry Grissom's hands off his throat, but couldn't break the strong grip.  So he pushed hard against Grissom's face, twisting his neck to the side, until he forced him to let go.  Grissom's gloves began slipping off as his hands were pulled from the other's neck, but he continued to swing his arms and was able to land a hard fist to his aggressor's jaw.  The other man was momentarily distracted, but then he was able to gain his own tight grip on Grissom's throat.

The two men flipped back over, the attacker now on top, his hands continuing to choke off Grissom's air.  As the criminalist's movements of resistance faded away, the black-clad man loosened his death-hold just long enough to allow Grissom to hang onto consciousness.  He stood, and seemed to study the prone CSI for a long moment.  He raised a gloved hand to his jaw, and rubbed it gingerly through the ski mask.  The coppery tang of blood filled his mouth, and he spit it out disgustedly, directing the spray toward Grissom's still form.

Grissom remained unmoving on the floor, blinking up at the dark man above him, trying to make sense of what was happening.  The only coherent thought floating through his dazed brain was _evidence…don't let this guy get away without leaving evidence linking him to the crime…_

The man in black suddenly stepped out of Grissom's line of vision.  He tried to turn his head to follow the movement, but sharp pain shot through his skull and he almost passed out.  The dim world above him swam in and out of focus and a wave of nausea roiled up from his stomach.  Closing his eyes tightly for a moment to clear his vision, Grissom reached weakly for his gun.  As the weapon cleared his holster, he began swinging it in the direction his attacker had disappeared.

The shadowy intruder turned just in time to see the CSI's automatic pointing at him.  He reacted swiftly, stomping on Grissom's hand and forcing him to lose his grip on the weapon.  He dug his heel further into the back of Grissom's right hand, twisting deliberately, shifting his weight until he heard bones crunch.  Grissom screamed in pain.  Then the black-clad man moved quickly, stepping on the CSI's back, forcing his face into the carpet.  He began kicking Grissom in the ribs with the toe of his boot, each dull thump punctuated by a grunt of pain from the injured criminalist.  After several kicks, the attacker reached down and flipped his victim over onto his back.  Grissom's eyes were barely open, scarlet blood smeared all over his face.  The man in black let loose with once last vicious blow to Grissom's jaw, spraying blood across the light-colored rug.  Satisfied that his victim would not be able to tell anyone about him for a long time, the dark figure moved to the fireplace mantle, grabbed the item he had come for, and walked out the door, leaving the unconscious CSI supervisor behind him, sprawled on the now blood-spotted floor of the empty Miller house.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	2. Collecting Evidence

**A/N:  Thanks to everyone for all the wonderful reviews!  You guys are great!  ****J**

**Chapter 2:  Collecting Evidence**

Catherine punched Grissom's number into her cell phone again and listened to the endless ringing on the other end.  _Why doesn't he pick up?_ she thought, worry starting to creep into the edges of her consciousness.  She had called him six times in the last half hour and he _always kept his phone on when he was in the field._

She tried beeping him again, pacing impatiently through the break room as she waited for him to return the call.  After ten long minutes, she gave up.  Grissom hadn't answered her other four pages either.  Feeling more and more like something was wrong, Catherine strode out of the building and headed for the last place Grissom had been—their latest crime scene, the Miller house.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Climbing out of the Tahoe, Catherine scanned the dim front yard of the house.  She had parked behind Grissom's matching SUV, so she knew that he hadn't left under his own power.  Squinting toward the stoop, she made out a dark lump on the top step.  A pale sliver of light coming from the slightly open door cut the night shadows like a cold blade.  Catherine knew she should call for backup before charging into the house, knew the intruder or intruders could still be inside, but if there was a chance Grissom was in there she wasn't about to wait any longer.

Drawing her gun, she hurried toward the door.  Reaching the officer lying on the cement, she felt for his pulse, continuing to scan the area for any sign of the cop's attacker.  Finding Officer Jenkins alive, she peered warily into the dim living room.

Recognizing the prone figure lying there, Catherine's eyes widened and she rushed to her supervisor's side.  "Grissom," she said, holstering her weapon and kneeling next to him.  She immediately grabbed her walkie-talkie from its belt clip and sent an urgent message over the police frequency.  "This is CSI Willows, I have two officers down, repeat two officers down at Miller residence, 1258 Smith Avenue.  Immediate medical assistance needed.  I repeat, immediate medical assistance needed!"  She returned her walkie to its holder and tried to calm her suddenly rapid breathing.

She reached out a somewhat shaky hand and laid it gently on Grissom's neck.  Feeling his pulse, she closed her eyes in deep relief.  Then she looked him over more closely.  Although the only source of illumination came from Grissom's discarded Maglite lying on the floor nearby, Catherine could tell he was hurt badly.  His face was a mess of blood, and deep bruising was evident on his neck.  She carefully touched his cheek and turned his battered face towards her.  She grimaced as she saw the flowing wound along his left cheekbone.  The whole left side of his face was covered with blood, which continued to run down into his hair and onto the already blood-spattered rug.  "Grissom…what happened…" she whispered, not expecting an answer.

She began glancing around for something to use to stop the bleeding.  There was a first aid kit in her truck, and she was about to go outside and retrieve it when, surprisingly, she did get a response from Grissom.  His body suddenly jerked as he fought his way back to semi-consciousness.  His eyes fluttered open and he tried to focus on her face.

"Gil, can you hear me?"  She shook him slightly.  "Gil?"

"Cath…" he replied weakly, his voice a raspy whisper.  He coughed, trying to force air past his bruised larynx, trying to make sure she heard him.

"It's all right; you're going to be fine.  Just lie still."

"No…Cath…" Grissom breathed.  He reached unsteadily toward her with his left hand, trying to grab her and pull her closer to him, but his grasp was weak and tenuous.

"Shh, lie still," she repeated.  "The ambulance is on its way."  She took his outstretched hand and held it gently in both of hers, attempting to comfort him, but she didn't understand, didn't comprehend the urgency of his words.

He tried to fight her grip on his hand, tried to move her closer to him so she could hear, so she could know.  "The evidence," he got out, "…on my…don't let…" His weak words trailed off into struggling wheezes, each inhalation of air causing intense pain to shoot through his injured ribs.

"You have to lie still," Catherine instructed, trying to hold him down without hurting him further.

A brief burst of adrenaline coursed through him and he sat halfway up.  "Cath, you have to listen to me," he pleaded, the words quietly rushing out of him before he lost his breath again.  "His blood…the suspect's blood…it's on my…"  The rest was lost in a wracking coughing fit that stole his desperate words from the air and the remaining breath from his lungs.  His meager energy spent, he slipped onto his back again, every second becoming a struggle to hang onto the last remaining wisps of awareness.

Catherine noticed his eyes closing once more.  "Stay with me, Grissom, stay with me!" she ordered, hoping the strength of her words alone would be enough to help him hold on.  "Stay with me!"

But his eyes slowly closed, and he slipped back into the darkness.  Catherine heard the distant sirens of the paramedics and police cars.  _Hurry_, she silently urged them.  _Hurry!  She sat there, holding his hand tightly, as the screaming sounds of help cut through the night air, growing closer and closer. _

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

As multiple sets of tires screeched to a halt, and sirens whirred down, pandemonium filled the early morning scene on Smith Avenue.  It seemed that everyone arrived at once—two sets of paramedics, Captain Brass, Sergeant O'Riley, and the entire CSI graveyard shift.  Officer Jenkins was loaded up quickly into one of the ambulances.  The other paramedics rushed past Catherine and began working on Grissom.  Then Warrick, Sara, Nick, and Brass hurried through the doorway.

"What happened?" Nick called over the din.  He couldn't see past the crowd of people kneeling and standing on the other side of the living room.

"Where's Grissom?" Sara asked.  She followed Catherine's glance to the left, and suddenly realized who the medics were gathered around.  "Oh, my God," she said.  She pushed her way though the rows of bodies until she got a glimpse of Grissom.  One medic was checking his vitals, while another tended to the wounds on his face.  Two more paramedics charged in, rolling a gurney.  They collapsed it and loaded Grissom on, carrying him quickly past the group by the door.  Sara followed close on their heels.

"What's going on?" Warrick asked, as they passed by him in a blur.

"I'm riding to the hospital with him," Sara announced, flying by the concerned cluster of her colleagues.

Catherine pulled Nick and Warrick to the side.  The men stared at her, worry and confusion filling their expressions.  "I'm not sure what happened, guys," she began, wishing she knew more.  "Grissom came back here to see if anything was missed on the first sweep.  After a couple of hours he still hadn't gotten back to the lab, so I called him and paged him, but I got no answer.  So I came here looking for him.  I found him lying over there."

"What happened to him?" Nick asked.

Catherine shook her head.  "He must have surprised somebody who came back to the house.  Maybe our murder suspect…I don't know.  Grissom was beaten up pretty badly.  He was bleeding and he had…"  She stopped for a moment and swallowed, her hands unconsciously lifting toward her chin.  "He had bruises on his neck—like handprints."

"Oh, God," Warrick groaned.

"Did he say anything to you?"

"He tried to," Catherine responded.  "He woke up for a minute and tried to tell me something, but he never got it out."

The house had emptied, and the trio looked around.  They took in the fresh blood on the carpeting, and Grissom's discarded gloves and gun.  The room could tell them the story of what had happened, but right now their minds were on their seriously injured supervisor.  Their eyes met again and Catherine spoke for them all.  "They're taking him to Desert Palm.  Let's go," she said solemnly, and they headed out to their waiting Tahoes.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

The four CSIs and Brass paced the small area, awaiting news from the emergency room doctors.  Every so often, they stopped and exchanged intense glances.  Finally, a tall woman in scrubs entered the room.  Five pairs of questioning eyes turned to her immediately as she introduced herself, "I'm Dr. Mitchell, one of the attendings who worked on Mr. Grissom.  Why don't you all sit down?"  No one moved, so she continued, "His condition is currently stable, but he has quite a few injuries.  Luckily, none of them seem to be life-threatening."  The doctor could practically feel the simultaneous silent sigh of relief that came from the five people in front of her.

"What happened to him?" Sara inquired, speaking for the entire group.

"You don't know?" the doctor asked, puzzled.

"No, Dr. Mitchell," Catherine explained.  "I found Grissom after he was attacked."

"Well, 'attacked' is a good word, Officer."  She again offered the group a seat with a soundless sweep of her arm.  This time, the two women lowered themselves to nearby chairs while the men remained standing.  "Mr. Grissom _was attacked tonight, and rather viciously.  He has a minor concussion, and lacerations on his face—one of which required ten stitches.  Two of his ribs are cracked and his right hand is broken in three places."_

Catherine winced—she hadn't even noticed his hand.

"And," the doctor was saying, "Mr. Grissom sustained severe injuries to his neck and throat.  There is swelling around his vocal chords, and his esophagus and trachea.  He was having some difficulty breathing but we brought it under control."

"Can we see him?" Catherine inquired.

"He'll be in the ICU for several hours for observation because of the concussion," the doctor told them.  "After that he'll be moved into a semi-private room.  The ICU is very strict on visitors, so I can only let you in one or two at a time right now, for a few minutes, but that's it.  Then you'll have to leave.  You can come back and see him later, during regular visiting hours."

"Thank you, doctor," Catherine said, standing and moving forward to shake Mitchell's hand.

"It's my pleasure.  If you'll wait here, I'll send a nurse back to take you to Mr. Grissom's room."

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

The solemn trio of Nick, Warrick, and Brass stood outside the ICU after seeing Grissom.  It had been hard to view their supervisor looking so hurt and helpless.  CSIs were scientists, and usually not on the receiving end of the physical dangers of law enforcement.  They had all had to pull their weapons at one time or another, but that was the exception, not the rule.  They usually investigated the case, as objective observers, letting the evidence tell the tale.  Never before had one of them "become" the case, as Grissom had now.  Grissom himself could be the key to finding Kimberly Miller's murderer, but, for the CSIs, overcoming their emotional attachments could hinder the case.  It wouldn't be as simple this time, being detached investigators.  They all cared for and respected Grissom, and it would be hard not to let those feelings interfere with their investigation.  Right now, none of Grissom's team was even really thinking about the case.  Instead their minds were filled with concern for him and his perilous condition.

Captain Jim Brass felt the same way, but he knew someone had to take the lead here—take Grissom's place and get his team thinking about the case and the crime scene and the evidence.  Jim wasn't a cold man; he cared about Grissom, too.  But he knew that key evidence could be disappearing while they stood here, so, as Catherine and Sara emerged from the room, he spoke up.  "Listen, guys," he began softly.  "I know we're all worried about Grissom, but we have a job to do here.  The person who attacked him tonight could very well be the murderer we're looking for.  A murderer who came back for…a piece of evidence maybe that links him to the crime.  And even though he may have taken something away from the scene…he may also have left something of himself behind.  And if we can link him to the attack on Grissom, we can link him to Ms. Miller's murder."

The CSIs looked like they had just come out of a daze.  They had been so caught up in their worry that they had forgotten to do the job they were trained for.  The concern in their eyes hardened into fierce determination as they realized they would find the person who had hurt their boss and bring him to justice.

"Nick and I'll go back and examine the new crime scene," Warrick suggested.

Nick nodded and followed him out.  "Meet you back at the lab later."

"I'll go check on the evidence we collected last night from the Miller bedroom," Sara offered.

That left Catherine and Brass standing in the hallway.  "What about the evidence that may have been _on_ Grissom?" Brass asked, eyes narrowing.  "If he was in a close-quarters battle with this guy, maybe our suspect left us some DNA."

Catherine thought back to the actions leading up to Grissom's arrival at the hospital.  She shook her head.  "Most of that evidence has been compromised.  At least a dozen pairs of hands have touched him, including mine."  She chastised herself, "I should have known better.  Any trace evidence left by the suspect is long gone."  She took a deep breath.  "I didn't check for any evidence on Grissom at the crime scene. Not even on his clothes.  Damn it, I should have!"

"Hey, hey," Brass said in a calming tone.  "Don't blame yourself.  Your mind wasn't on the scene, it was on Gil."

She lowered her eyes.  "I know, but…"  Her head snapped back up.  "Wait a second.  There could still _be evidence on him.  Grissom's gloves came off at the scene…maybe he got some of our guy's DNA under his nails, or on his knuckles."_

"Right," Brass agreed, nodding.  "And didn't you say there were marks on his neck?  Not just bruises, but handprints?  Maybe that could give us something, too."

"Yeah."  There was a glimmer of purpose in Catherine's eyes now.  "I'll get my gear from the truck to collect any physical evidence preserved on Grissom.  Could you talk to Attila the Nurse there for me?  See if you can get me back into his room now?"

"I'll use my powers of persuasion," he replied, flashing her a small smile.  "I'll also find out what they did with his clothes, just in case something survived the paramedics' and doctors' man-handling."

"Thanks," she tossed back, already moving down the hall.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Catherine had spent a good hour with Grissom in the ICU cubicle.  She had taken one-to-one pictures of the bruising on his neck and the injuries on his face.  She had taken samples from underneath all his fingernails.  When she had tried to examine his knuckles, she was surprised to find an unusually shaped bruise on the back of his right hand.  That was the hand that had been fractured, but luckily the doctors had not been able to cast it yet because of severe swelling.  They had simply immobilized Grissom's hand in a splint until the swelling went down enough to put a cast on it.  So Catherine had been able to get photos of that odd-shaped marking, too.  She had also swabbed certain areas on his face and knuckles for traces of suspect blood.

It had been very strange working on Grissom under such circumstances.  She had spoken to him as she worked, explaining to him everything she was doing, even though he had been unresponsive.  Although he had offered no sign that he could feel anything she was doing, she had still been afraid she might be hurting him.  The nurses assured her repeatedly that he was heavily sedated and resting comfortably, but still Catherine had done her collecting gently, and with the utmost care.  She knew that Grissom would approve if he had been aware of her actions, but it had left her with an odd sensation that she still felt now that she had returned to the lab.  She had left the evidence with Greg Sanders, and was waiting on the results with Sara in the break room.

"Did you find anything interesting in the evidence from the Miller master bedroom?" Catherine asked Sara.

"There was one thing.  Greg analyzed a piece of black string for me.  He said it was a wool knit, like from winter gloves or a ski hat."

"Really?" Catherine said.  That didn't fit with anything else they knew…yet.  But it might be vitally important later.  Evidence was like a puzzle—they might have a piece that doesn't look like it belongs, but later they realize all they had to do was turn it around, or wait for the piece next to it to fall into place, and then it fit in perfectly.

"Any word from the hospital about Grissom?" Sara asked.

"No, but it hasn't been that long.  Brass left word that they should call us if there's any change."

Sara nodded, and then turned silently back to her thoughts.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	3. Reenactment

**A/N:  This chapter is a little bit longer.  Thanks to all for your continued support of this story, and for the great reviews!  I hope you enjoy this next part.**

**Chapter 3:  Reenactment **

Nick and Warrick had been roaming around the Miller living room, trying to piece together what had happened.  They had already taken some photos, but had not begun collecting physical evidence yet.

Nick started at the leftmost spot on an almost straight line littered with physical findings that led to the fireplace on the right side of the living room.  "Here are Grissom's glasses," he said, squatting down and picking them up carefully with gloved fingers.  Looking closely, he noticed that the left earpiece was bent inward, and that there were tiny spots of blood on the lenses and frame.  "Obviously knocked off his face during the fight."

Warrick came closer and nodded agreement with Nick's findings.  He watched as his partner placed the glasses in a small plastic bag.  Then he pointed out the next section of clues.  "The main part of the fight seems to have been here.  There are two blood patterns—these small closely-spaced drops…"  He squatted down to get a better look.  "…and this large medium-velocity blood spatter here."

"Yeah, that could have come from a blow to the face," Nick added, hunkering down next to Warrick.  He took note of what seemed like an awful lot of blood all around them.  An involuntary shudder ran through him as he fully realized that at least some of the red stains must have come from their boss.  He shared an uneasy glance with Warrick, and his voice came out almost in a whisper as he asked, "Do you think this is all Grissom's blood?"

"Not sure," Warrick replied, his voice equally low.  "Why don't you take a sample of both patterns, and let Greg tell us."

Nick got out some cotton swabs and began processing the blood.

"Then we've got this smudge, followed by this large blood stain here," Warrick continued, moving down the line of evidence.  "This may have been where Gris was lying after he got knocked out.  Did Catherine say what position he was in when she found him?"

The other CSI shook his head.  "No, and I couldn't see through the crowd of people in here earlier."

"Me, either," Warrick agreed.  "I'm gonna call Catherine."  He pulled out his cell phone, unfolded it, extended the antenna, and punched his speed dial.  "Cath?  Hi, it's Warrick.  Nick and I are here at the Miller house.  We're checking out the scene and we need to know where you found Grissom and exactly what position he was in."  He listened as she tried to remember and describe it in as much detail as possible.  "Okay, thanks, Cath.  We'll fill you guys in when we get back to the lab."

He turned back to his colleague.  "All right.  Catherine says Grissom was lying on his back about six or seven feet from the edge of the fireplace, head to the north, feet to the south."

Nick paced off the approximate distance, and ended up next to the largest of the blood stains on the carpet.  "So this _was where Gris was lying."_

"Yeah.  He had cuts on the left side of his face.  So if he ends up on his back here, the blood flows this way, toward his ear…"  Warrick indicated the direction on his own face, dragging his fingers perpendicular to the bridge of his nose.  "…and pools on the carpet.  Gravity."

"And lacerations on the left side of Grissom's face mean a right-handed attacker."  Nick pantomimed holding someone in front of him and administering a swift right cross.  "Blood spatter on the rug to the west supports this."

"Well, there are no more visible blood stains," Warrick pointed out.

"So, the fight was probably quick, and contained here in the center."  He squatted down and examined the carpet.  "Got some hairs," he reported, picking one up carefully in his tweezers.  "Gray and curly."

"You think they belong to the boss?" Warrick asked.

"Greg'll let us know," Nick answered as he placed the hairs into a small yellow envelope.

Warrick moved further down the evidence line, frowning in puzzlement.  "If the fight was in the middle of the room, then why is Grissom's gun over here…?"  He indicated a spot to the east of where Nick was standing.  "…and his gloves over there?"  He pointed back toward the start of the grouping of clues.

Nick thought for a moment.  "His gloves…came off during the fight," he offered.  "With all the rolling around and trying to get punches in.  And his gun…"  He rubbed his jaw, deep in concentration, then gave a little shrug.  "If all the action is here in the center, why is Grissom's gun facing east, near the fireplace?"

"It was dropped during the struggle?" Warrick thought out loud.

"Maybe.  But, I don't know, doesn't it seem kind of…posed to you?"

"Let's play it out," Warrick suggested.  He faced the other CSI.  "Okay, you're Gris and I'm the suspect.  We're struggling and you draw your gun."

Nick pulled an imaginary gun from his holster, using his right index finger and thumb to represent the barrel and hammer.  Warrick grabbed his wrists as they fought for the "gun."

"Now if you lose your grip on the gun," Warrick pointed out, "it ends up way over there behind us.  Not on the opposite side near the fireplace."

"Right," Nick agreed.  He glanced around.  "But what if we're on the ground struggling for the gun?"  He got down on his back, carefully avoiding the blood evidence scattered about.

The men pretended to fight again, but soon realized that the gun would still most likely fly off to Nick's right—the opposite direction they were looking for.  "Okay," Nick suggested, "so that doesn't work.  But…"  He sat up and switched positions.  "…what if Grissom was on _top when they fought for the gun?"  He again imagined a gun in his right hand, and he and Warrick struggled for possession of the invisible weapon.  This time it made sense that the gun would land off to Nick's right, near the fireplace._

The two CSIs got up and dusted themselves off.  They had found a plausible scenario to explain the placement of Grissom's gun.  "Maybe," Warrick commented.  "But how do we know that the attacker didn't have possession of the gun when it was dropped?"

"We don't," his colleague admitted.  "I'll take it to the lab and check for prints."

"He could have worn gloves."

"Yeah, but if our bad guy got a hold of the gun, why didn't he use it?  Grissom didn't have any bullet wounds."

Warrick shook his head.  "Who knows?  Maybe he didn't _want to kill Gris.  Or…maybe he used the gun for something else.  Like to give Gris that shot across the face."_

Nick picked up the gun and examined it under a lighted magnifier.  "No evidence of blood on here, but I'll have Greg check it out."  He dropped Grissom's weapon into a fresh bag.

Getting a sudden thought, Warrick looked toward the front door.  "Why don't you finish up in here, and I'll go check outside?"

"Sure," Nick agreed.

After several minutes, Warrick returned.  "Look what I got," he announced enthusiastically.

Nick glanced up and saw the dark, slender instrument in his partner's gloved hand.

"Found it right in the garbage can, on top of the trash bags."

"Cool," Nick commented.  "You think our suspect used that to nail Grissom and Jenkins?"

"Oh, yeah.  Visible signs of blood and tissue."

"Bag it and we'll see if he left us prints, too."  Nick returned to the blood smudge he had been studying when Warrick walked in.  It was mixed in with the blood patterns they had categorized earlier, but it was fainter and larger than the other spots, and oddly-shaped.  "What do you make of this, War?" he inquired.

Warrick came over and looked with him.  "Partial shoe print?"

The mark resembled a small triangle with one side extending diagonally past the others.  "Could be a boot with a pointed toe…or a woman's shoe."  He put a scale marker down around the blood print and snapped a picture.

"I doubt our perp was a female," Warrick said.  "Kimberly Miller was strangled—that's a man's crime.  If it _was the murderer returning to the scene, then we're looking for a guy.  And the way he worked over Gris and Officer Jenkins?  That took a lot of physical strength.  It was a man all right."_

Nick nodded in agreement.  "Now that we've done all our collecting, let's review what the room tells us."  They began at the doorway and walked through the events as they knew them.  "Okay," Nick began, "Gris comes in through the door and starts looking around.  He sees something and goes to check it out."  They stepped to the apparent beginning of the evidence line.  "I bagged a pair of tweezers I found here, so he must have been examining some small piece of evidence."

"Did you find what he was looking at?" Warrick asked.

"No.  It must have gotten lost in the struggle."

"All right," Warrick said, picking up where Nick had left off.  "So Grissom is here, examining something, and our perp comes up behind him after taking care of Jenkins outside."

"Right.  Grissom turns, and the guy nails him with the blackjack, like this…"  Nick swung his arm hard from right to left.  "Pow!  Cast off from the weapon leaves our closely-spaced blood pattern over here to the left."

Warrick took up the narrative again, "So, Grissom goes down, and then there's a struggle—rolling around, exchanging blows…"  He threw a couple of shadow-boxing punches.

Nick nodded and continued, "At some time during the fight, Grissom's gloves slip off and he pulls his gun…"

"Or the perp does…"

Nick silently concurred.  "They fight over the gun, and somehow it ends up discarded next to the fireplace."

"Our boy finishes off Grissom, getting in a few more shots and choking him…"

"…leaving visible hand prints on Grissom's throat."

"Then he grabs whatever he came for and walks out, leaving us that partial print and tossing the blackjack in the trash."

"But what _did_ he come for?" Nick pondered.

Warrick gave a cursory glance around the room.  "You got me.  Nothing looks out of place or like it's missing."

Nick frowned in thought.  "Did Sara take casing pictures of this room?"

"I doubt it.  Point of disturbance was the master bedroom, _upstairs_.  No reason to take photos down here."

"Well, there's one person, besides the suspect, who might know what he took out of here," Nick reasoned.

"Grissom?"

"Grissom.  Maybe he saw something before he blacked out."

"We should go drop all this stuff by the lab, and then see how he's doing."

"Yeah, maybe Grissom can fill in the blanks for us, if he's up to it."

"Let's go find out," Warrick suggested as they left the house loaded down with their evidence bags and swabs ready for processing.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

_He turns and feels the hard blow burn into his cheek.  He falls back and struggles with the attacker.  The strong hands clamp around his throat.  He can't breathe, his lungs fight for air.  Finally, the fingers loosen and he looks up at the man in black.  Everything turns fuzzy, but he feels warm drops of wetness land on his neck and chest.  He watches in slow motion as the blood hits him and splatters.  Then the suffocating darkness overcomes him, and he falls into it, feeling fear course through him…_

Grissom's eyes snapped open, and he sat halfway up on the hospital bed, his heart beating wildly.  He felt a firm, but gentle hand on his chest, pushing him back down onto the pillow.  As the person next to him came into focus, he tried to say, "Sara…"  He heard her name in his head, but all that came out was a scratchy hiss.

"Don't try to talk," she told him.  "I'll go get the doctor."

She rushed off, leaving him there to gain his bearings and to get his rapid breathing under control.  A quick glance at himself told him he was in the hospital.  He tried to look around, but his neck was stiff and sore, and he was unable to turn it more than an inch in any direction.  He felt other assorted pains throughout his body and the pinch of an IV in his arm.  Raising his left hand to his throat, he tried to swallow.  Grimacing, he managed to get saliva past what felt like a large lump in his throat, but the resulting sharp, burning agony made him not want to do it again any time soon, even though his mouth and lips were terribly parched.

Trying to think about something besides the horrible pain in his throat, Grissom suddenly remembered the hazy, dream-like memory that had woken him.  He had to communicate the crucial information to Sara, so as she returned to the room with the doctor, he attempted to signal for a piece of paper.  First he raised his right hand, but realized that it was encased in a hard cast made of some kind of foam.  The stiff shell extended several inches past his wrist, and surrounded each of his fingers, effectively immobilizing them.  So he quickly lifted his other hand and moved it through the air like he was writing.

"What is it, Grissom?"

He wanted to just shout it out, but his vocal chords wouldn't cooperate.  He repeated his pantomime.

"A pen and paper?" she asked, getting it.

He nodded energetically.

He took the offered implements eagerly, but slowed down as he struggled to write legibly with his left hand.

"How are you feeling today, Mr. Grissom?" the young doctor asked, a rather stupid thing to do since Gil was unable to answer him verbally.

Grissom ignored him, and focused on completing his message.

"Mr. Grissom?" the doctor repeatedly cluelessly.

Gil spared half a second to wave him off and throw him a quick, but intense glare.  Then he turned right back to the pad.

Sara jumped in to help her occupied supervisor, "Give him a minute, would you, doc?"

"I'll be back in a little while," the doctor said, getting the picture.

Grissom finished what he was scribbling and showed it to Sara.

He wouldn't win any awards for his left-handed penmanship, but Sara was able to make it out.  She read it out loud, "Suspect got his blood on me.  DNA?"

She pressed the control button on the bed to raise him up into more of a sitting position, and moved the wheeled tray in front of him so it would be easier for him to "talk" to her on the pad.  "Where did the guy's blood land?  Do you remember?" she asked.

He touched the base of his neck near the collar of his hospital gown.

Sara frowned.  "They cleaned you up pretty well, but there might still be a trace of suspect blood on you."

Grissom looked confused.  He wrote down his question, "Blood collected at the scene?"

"No, we didn't collect any evidence off you at the scene."

He stared at her with puzzled eyes.

"Look, we know it wasn't protocol, but when Catherine found you, you were unconscious and bleeding.  She was worried about you.  We were _all worried about you, and collecting trace evidence wasn't the first thing on our minds."_

He continued to look at her, without saying a word, but she knew just what he was thinking.  Grissom would hate to hear it from any of his team, but he was a very easy man to read.  His expressive face, especially his ever-changing blue eyes, spoke volumes.

Right now, his eyebrows were furrowed and his lips were pursed, and Sara could tell exactly how he felt.  She sensed anger and frustration simmering on the surface, but underneath that, where it counted, fighting with his more irate emotions, she knew that he understood the situation and didn't really blame the CSIs.  She decided to tease him about it—just a little, "Come on, Grissom, think about it.  What if you had been in Catherine's place?  What if it had been her lying there?  Or Nick?  Could you have just stopped everything, told the paramedics to wait, and started collecting hair and fiber evidence from their unconscious bodies?  Would you have said, 'Wait a second,' and then taken swabs of blood samples while the paramedics put off taking care of them?"

He sighed—with his whole body, like he always did—and graced her with a weak half-smile.  Then he reached for the pad, and jotted something down, "You're right.  I'm glad Catherine found me and took care of things."

Sara read it and smiled.  Then she told him, "Catherine was in the ICU with you last night, collecting evidence.  Even though it was after the fact, maybe she found something.  I'll call her."  She thought for a moment, and then added, "If the guy's blood hit where you showed me, I bet some of it got on your shirt.  I know Brass was trying to find your clothes—they got misplaced somewhere in the ER.  I'll check with him, too, and see where they are on that."

She could see frustration creeping back onto his face.  "I know, I know," she said.  "Murphy's law.  Normally, the ER docs just throw the patients' personal effects into plastic bags which travel with them from room to room.  But, somehow your stuff got lost."

He gave a little shake of his head, and leaned back against the pillow.

"Look, Grissom, I know we'll find something," she soothed.  "You're the one who always says, 'there's always a clue.'  And I know we'll find one."

He looked slightly more convinced, but, suddenly, also very, very tired.  Sara took in his battered face, noticeably pale where it wasn't covered with mottled-purple bruising, and the deep, dark marks on his neck, which stood out shockingly against his pallid skin.  Although he was improving, he still looked pretty wrecked to her.  His vulnerable appearance made Sara feel very protective of him.  She wanted to reach out and comfort him, and do anything she could to make him feel better.  Noticing his terribly chapped lips, she asked, "Are you thirsty?"

He gave a little nod.

"Okay, why don't you just lie there and relax.  I'll go check in with Brass and Catherine, and then I'll track down your doctor and see if you can have some water or something."

He thanked her with a small, tired smile.

"Be right back," she promised, leaving the room.

Grissom closed his suddenly heavy eyelids and tried to rest.  But in the blackness that greeted him, all he could see, in endless repetition, was a tall, dark figure looming over him; all he could feel was fear and worry and a nagging sense that something very important was missing, lost somewhere in the recesses of his mind…

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Sara returned to Grissom's room about ten minutes later.  He had been dozing lightly, but woke up when he heard her come in.  "Hey," Sara greeted, sitting down next to him.  She put a Styrofoam cup with a plastic spoon sticking out of it on the tray-table.  Seeing his quizzical look, she explained, "Ice chips.  The doctor said that's all you can have for now."  She put some on the tip of the spoon and lifted it to his lips.  He opened up and she slid the ice in.  He let the ice melt in his mouth a little, and then he attempted to swallow.  The frozen liquid numbed and soothed his throat as it slid down.

Sara could tell that the ice chips were helping.  "More?" she asked.

When he nodded, she gave him another spoonful.  He swallowed again, his throat feeling much better as the cold water coated it on the way down.  Sara let him have one more mouthful of the ice, and then said, "That's it for now.  The doctor said just a little at a time."

He reached for the pen and notebook on the tray.  "Thanks," he wrote, his handwriting getting a bit better with practice.  "What did Cath and Brass have to say?"

"Catherine said she took some swabs from your face, but the results haven't come back from Greg yet.  He has a lot to process—Nick and Warrick brought him a bunch of stuff, too.  As far as Brass goes—he said they haven't located your clothes yet, but they're still looking."

He exhaled impatiently.

Sara went on, "Catherine did suggest that I check for any blood she may have missed on your neck.  She didn't really look in that area.  The swabs she took were from your knuckles and face."  She got a lighted magnifier out of her field kit.  "So is it okay if I look?  I'll be careful, but it still might hurt."

He nodded, and braced himself.  She leaned forward, and started gently prodding the base of his neck.  She used very light pressure when she made contact anywhere near the reddish-purple bruises, but she still felt him flinch and draw back from the pain her touch caused.  "Sorry," she said guiltily.

She didn't see anything until she pulled the top of his hospital gown down past his collarbone.  She moved closer still, and saw a tiny, dry, maroon-colored speck.  "Hey, Gris," she told him.  "I think we have something here."

She reached for a sterile swab from her kit and doused it with hydrogen peroxide.  Then she rubbed it over the fleck on his skin.  Dropping some phenolphthalein onto the cotton tip of the swab, she watched it turn pink—the sign that blood was indeed present.  "We've got blood," she announced happily.  She covered the swab and placed it in a narrow box to transport it to the lab.

Once she finished, Grissom leaned forward to write a comment to her.  "Could be mine," he inscribed on the paper.

"Greg will let us know," she replied.

Just then, Nick and Warrick came in, followed by the young doctor returning with a nurse.  "Hey, Gris," Nick said, walking over.  "How are you doing?"  He patted Grissom's arm.

"He can't really talk," Sara explained to her coworkers.  "He's supposed to rest his throat."

Hearing that, the guys didn't ask Grissom any more questions.  But Warrick commented, "You don't look too bad, Gris.  And I'm sure the other guy looks worse."

Grissom smiled, but then the doctor interrupted before anyone could say anything else, "I'm sorry, but you'll all have to leave the room for a few minutes.  Nurse Jeffries and I have to examine Mr. Grissom.  You can come back in when we're through.  Thanks for your cooperation."

The CSIs were reluctant, but they obeyed the doctor's orders.  "We'll be right back, Grissom," Sara promised him.

After a few minutes, Dr. Wright and the nurse emerged from the room.  They found the three criminalists standing there, waiting.

"How is he doing?" Nick asked.

"Mr. Grissom is doing very well," Dr. Wright told them.  "The swelling in his throat has gone down further, and he has refused more pain medication, so it seems that he's feeling better.  I think we'll be able to release him from the hospital tomorrow."

"Really?  So soon?" Sara wondered.

"I think so," the doctor repeated.  "Of course, Mr. Grissom still has a way to go until he's back to one hundred percent.  He'll need to rest and take it easy for a few weeks.  He'll be sore for a while, but I don't see any reason to keep him here much longer."

"Hey, all right," Warrick said.  "I bet Gris'll be glad to hear that."

"Yeah," Sara agreed.  "Can we go back in and see him?"

"Sure," the doctor told them.  "He can have some more of those ice chips, and later we'll try him on some other liquids and soft foods.  But no solid foods yet, and nothing hot."

Warrick, Sara, and Nick made a note of the doctor's instructions, and then went back into the room.  "The doc says you're doing great," Warrick began.  "You'll be out of here real soon."

Sara picked the Styrofoam cup up off the tray.  Seeing that half the ice had melted, she offered, "I'll go get you some more of these."

Grissom grabbed the pen.  "Did you guys check out the scene?" he wrote, angling the notebook so that they could read it.

"Yeah," Warrick answered.  "We think we know what happened, but a few things aren't clear.  We don't know what originally caught your attention in the center of the room.  We aren't sure what happened when you drew your gun, and the main thing is we don't know what the guy returned to the scene for.  Did you see him take anything out of there, Gris?"

He responded on the paper, "No.  Sorry.  It's still a little fuzzy."

"That's okay," Nick said.  "We gave all our samples to Greg to work on.  Maybe he'll find something for us."

"Anything unusual?" their supervisor wrote.

"Not really," Nick replied.  "Some hairs, which we think are yours, a couple different blood patterns, your glasses, flashlight, and tweezers."

"Oh, we found the guy's weapon," Warrick added.  "One of those slim blackjacks."

Grissom raised a hand to his still-tender left cheek.  _So that's what the guy hit me with…_  "Any prints?" he jotted.

"No, sorry, boss.  We couldn't find even a partial," Nick admitted.  Then he brightened a bit.  "But we _did find what looked like part of a shoe print.  It's very small, but it could be helpful."_

"Yeah, if we find someone wearing pointed-toe boots with blood on the sole, we can make a comparison."

Sara returned to the room as Grissom was writing a comment on the pad.  "Sounds like you don't have much," the three others read.  They glanced at his exhausted, solemn face, and felt like they had failed him.

Grissom knew they had worked hard, but he was disappointed that they hadn't found more solid evidence.  He knew they all wanted this guy caught, but maybe their emotions were clouding their judgment.  Maybe his were, too.  Grissom couldn't hide his annoyance at the fact that this suspect had walked right back into their crime scene to steal incriminating evidence, and had left hardly a trace of himself behind.

_There's always a clue, he reminded himself silently, but the words, a famous mantra of his, echoed hollowly in his ears.  They were missing something, he knew.  __He was missing something—forgetting some crucial piece of information about his attack.  He tried thinking back to last night's events, but it just made his head hurt.  He was tired, he realized.  So tired…  He needed some rest.  Maybe it would come to him then.  The simultaneous sound of three beepers going off knocked Grissom out of his reverie; all the CSIs checked the small pagers on their belts._

"Greg," Nick reported.

"Greg," Warrick repeated.

"Catherine," Sara said, as they all exchanged a look.

"Greg must be done with the lab work," Nick explained.  "We'd better go see what he has."

Catherine must have an update, too," Sara added.  "And I need to get this new sample to the lab."

"We'll let you know what the results are, boss," Warrick promised, as he and Nick headed for the door.

Grissom nodded, while Sara said, "You two go on ahead.  I'll be right there."  She turned back to her supervisor.  "Will you be okay by yourself?" she asked, concern filling her voice.

He nodded again, giving her a little grin.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," he wrote in the notebook.  "It's okay.  Go.  Do your job."

"All right."  She looked at him pointedly.  "Now you suck on some more of these ice chips, and then try to get some rest.  Got it?"

"Got it," he scribbled quickly, as she lowered the back of his bed down so he could sleep comfortably.

He closed his eyes, but she didn't leave right away.  She stood there, watching him for several minutes.  She was filled with an urge to touch him comfortingly, to let him know she was there and that she cared, but she hesitated.  She had already gotten in trouble once—in court, of all places—for touching Grissom in a "romantic gesture."  She hadn't thought anyone had seen, then, but she really hadn't cared.  She remembered that case well.

Grissom had been so frustrated and upset, blaming himself for not finding the body they all _knew_ was hidden somewhere in Bob Evans's walls.  He had closed his eyes, seeming so sad and alone, and Sara had reached out and caressed his cheek.  He had opened his eyes so suddenly, and had looked so shocked, that she had pretended she had just been wiping plaster dust from his face.  In fact, he had had chalk on his cheek, but that wasn't the only reason she had touched him there.

And now, in his quiet hospital room, she felt the need to comfort him again.  This time she knew no one could see, but that didn't even factor into her decision.  She reached out and gently ran her fingers down the uninjured side of his face.  He didn't stir, and she thought he was probably already asleep, so with one last look at him, she walked out the door to join the rest of the team at CSI headquarters.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	4. Plenty of Evidence, No Suspect

**A/N:  I'm grateful to everyone who continues to read and review this story.  Special thanks to those of you who have reviewed more than once.  That's above and beyond the call of duty!  Enjoy!**

**Chapter 4:  Plenty of Evidence, No Suspect**

Greg Sanders emerged from behind his large microscope to face the attentive audience of the graveyard CSIs plus Brass.  He shuffled the pile of papers in his hand and got ready for his group presentation.  He _loved_ formally presenting his results to the CSIs, although sometimes they didn't allow him the opportunity.  "All right," he began.  "I have all the results here.  Nick, Warrick…"  He turned to them.  "All the blood samples you brought me belong to Grissom.  The hair samples are Grissom's as well.  The blood on the glasses and blackjack—Grissom's."

"I'm sensing a pattern here," Nick commented dejectedly.

"Is there _anything_ helpful on what we brought you?" Warrick asked.

"Not really," Greg admitted.  "Sorry, guys.  According to Jacqui, there were no prints on the blackjack and no prints on the gun other than Grissom's.  I'm thinking the guy wore gloves."  He hesitated, and then looked in Catherine's direction.  "And now onto you, Catherine."  He took a breath, and the others thought they knew what was probably coming.  "No usable DNA under Grissom's fingernails.  All the swabs you gave me contained only blood and skin belonging to Grissom, too.  But…"  He paused theatrically.  "…there _was something.  I found a black thread on one of the swabs from Grissom's knuckles.  It matches the wool knit of the small pieces of string found on our original victim, Kimberly Miller."_

Catherine's mouth quirked into half a grin.  "So that ties Grissom's attacker to our murder.  What do you think—he was wearing a ski mask?"

"Very possible," Greg replied, "unless the threads were from his gloves."

It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep everyone focused on the case, and slightly optimistic.

"Did you get to the swab I gave you yet?" Sara asked.

"Ah, Sara's swab," Greg said.  "The grand finale.  I put a rush on it as soon as you got here and gave it to me.  Yes, I got a DNA profile from the blood you gave me, Sara, and, drum roll please…it does _not match Grissom's DNA."_

"The attacker's?" Sara wondered hopefully.

"That's what I think.  So I ran it through CODIS, and…no hits.  Sorry, it's an unknown.  What I'm going to need is a sample to compare it to."

"Well as soon as we have something, we'll let you know," Sara told him, disappointment filling her tone.  "Thanks, Greg."

"No problem.  Just come back when you have someone in custody, and we'll nail him."

"I wish it was that easy, Greggo," Nick said quietly.  "I hate to say it, but right now we have no viable suspects."

"All right, everyone," Brass said, "let's get back to work.  Let's check out the other evidence we have, even though it's not much."

They slowly filed out, heading for the small box of evidence awaiting them across the hall.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

The team stood and sat around the lighted table in the spacious layout room.  Spread out in front of them was the meager evidence from both Kimberly Miller's murder scene and Grissom's attack.  They were all staring at the items on the tabletop, some of them zoning out, lost in their own thoughts, and some of them examining photos or trace evidence with magnifying glasses.

Even Greg had joined them, trying to be of any help he could, while, at the same time, trying not to get in the way.  At this moment, he decided to chance it and lean over Sara's shoulder while she examined one-to-one pictures of the bruising on Grissom's neck.  "So what do you think?" he asked her.  "Can you tell if the guy wore knit gloves or some other kind?"

"It's difficult to tell," Sara began.  "As hard as this guy was squeezing Grissom's neck, if he had been wearing knit gloves a repeating pattern may have been left, indicating the individual lines of threads."

Greg grabbed a magnifier and examined another one of the photos—this one showing a different angle of Grissom's neck.  "I don't see any pattern," he announced.

"Me, neither," Sara agreed.

"Does that mean he was wearing leather gloves?"

"Not necessarily.  They could have been fleece or another material—even latex like ours."  She paused, squinting at the photo in front of her.  "But I think we can definitely say that the wool threads you found did _not come from this guy's gloves."_

Greg nodded.  "So he was wearing a ski mask."

"Yeah.  That's why we didn't find any errant hairs from this guy—his head was completely covered."

Nick's voice came suddenly from across the table, "Hey, guys?  What do you make of this?"

Catherine and Warrick were the closest, so they moved over behind him.  On the table was a photo of Grissom's right hand, and next to it, an enlarged shot of just the odd-shaped bruise.

Warrick studied the images for a second.  "Is that a heel print?" he asked, shocked.

"I think so."

Catherine could see it now, too.  She hadn't realized what object the bruise resembled when she had taken the photos in the ICU.  "So, the guy _stomped on Grissom's hand?"_

"Not just stomped," Warrick pointed out.  "He dug that heel in hard.  Held it there.  He had to to cause such deep bruising and to break the bones.  He purposely _crushed_ Gris's hand."

"That says rage to me," Catherine began.  "This guy was violent enough to strangle Grissom and deliberately fracture his hand, but he stopped short of killing him.  Why?"

"Strangulation is an up close and personal crime," Nick said.  "This guy didn't know Grissom, didn't have a personal connection with him, so _killing him wouldn't have been…satisfying.  Not like killing Kimberly Miller was.  That _meant_ something to this guy.  He was mad at Grissom, furious even.  Maybe cause Grissom fought back or maybe just because Grissom was __there, in his way.  So he roughed him up pretty good—took out some of that anger on Gris, but he didn't have that _need_ to kill him."_

Nick shared a glance with both Catherine and Warrick, but Catherine was the one who spoke first.  "This guy is dangerous," she said softly.  "Dangerous and confident, because he thinks we don't have anything on him.  He thinks he got the only incriminating evidence at the scene.  That's a scary combination."

Brass, Greg, and Sara had overheard the conversation at the opposite end of the table.  They were all silent, absorbing Catherine's last comment.

Nick finally broke the silence, "Well, I'll take this heel print and scan it into the computer.  Our database only covers treads—and this heel is smooth—so I don't think we'll get any hits.  But it's worth a try."

"You could always use it for comparison," Greg chimed in.

"Yeah, if we had some suspects," Warrick said, noticeably annoyed.

"What's going on with that, Jim?" Catherine asked.  "By this time we usually have a revolving door in the interrogation room—boyfriends, coworkers, family members.  Doesn't Kimberly Miller have any of those?"

"Not really," Brass explained.  "Remember, she just moved here a month ago.  She works in telemarketing and keeps to herself.  The one coworker, who noticed she was missing from work, went to her house and found the body.  She called the police and we've already spoken to her."

"Well, since we usually interview people who knew _each victim," Catherine added, trying to keep her tone light, "we can't forget about all of __Grissom's girlfriends."_

Brass smirked at her attempt at humor.  It was appreciated by everyone in the room, but, unfortunately, it did very little to ease the serious mood that hung over them all. 

"What, Kimberly Miller has no family?" Nick asked, referring back to Brass's original comment.

"An aunt.  In Toledo.  That's it."

"There was no evidence of forced entry, right?  So she must have _known her attacker.  There must be someone we're missing," Sara reminded them._

"We'll keep looking into her background," Brass told them, "but right now there's no one else."  The beeper on his belt went off as he finished his sentence.  He picked it up and read the tiny screen.  "That's the hospital about Grissom's clothes.  I'll go find out if they found them."  He stepped out of the room to return the call.

Sara put down the magnifier she had been using.  "I guess we're done with this stuff, and I still feel like we've gotten nowhere."

Catherine tried to cheer her up.  "That's not exactly true, Sara.  All this stuff will be great for comparison just as soon as we get a suspect in."

Brass popped his head back in the doorway.  "They found his clothes.  I sent a couple of officers over to pick them up."

"Thanks, Brass," Catherine told him.  She turned to her other colleagues.  "Maybe we'll get lucky, and Grissom's clothes will give us the clue we're looking for."

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

They had tape-lifted a bunch of fibers and hairs from Grissom's clothes, and were examining them under the high-powered comparative microscope.  Grissom's dark ensemble—black pants, shoes, short-sleeve button-down shirt, and gray suede jacket—had finally been dropped off at the lab.  Warrick, Sara, and Greg decided to do the collecting and processing of the trace evidence themselves.

Warrick was comparing the fibers on Grissom's jacket to fibers from the living room carpet at the victim's house and finding a visual match.  Sara checked the hairs, including two with skin tags attached, which appeared to be more of Grissom's, but Greg would have to make certain with a DNA profile.  Greg himself was currently collecting samples from the dried blood on Grissom's shirt.  Since the material was black, it was hard to find the blood drops, but the UV light he was viewing through an amber filter caused the remnants of body fluid to fluoresce, making Greg's search much easier.

Checking for DNA from the blood scrapings, Greg waited impatiently while the centrifuge and computer did their work.  When the report finally came out of the printer, it matched the unknown profile Greg had identified earlier.  "Yes!" he cried, attracting the others' attention.  "This is definitely the attacker's blood!"

"Good work, Greg," Sara said, smiling.  "Did you find anything else?"

"Negative.  The only other blood on the shirt belongs to our esteemed leader."

"Well, keep looking."

"For what?"

"I don't know—anything else that'll lead to our killer."  She returned to studying Grissom's jacket, flipping it over so that the back faced her.  As the light illuminated the folds of suede from certain angles, Sara thought she noticed something.  She looked more closely and saw a mark embedded in the soft material.  It appeared to be a shoe print—clear and complete.  "Guys," she said, trying unsuccessfully to hide her excitement.  "Come and take a look at this."

The two men came over to get a peek.  "Is that a…" Greg began.

"Oh yeah," Warrick replied.  "Nice shoe print, Sara.  Let's get some photos."  He grabbed the camera from the side counter and started aiming and clicking.  The print looked just like what he expected from his and Nick's investigation of the crime scene.  It was obviously the bottom of a pointed-toe boot.

"It's a clear image, but that still doesn't help us," Sara said.  "I don't think cowboy boots are in the database.  They generally have no distinctive treads, just smooth, leather soles."

"I know, but it's still a beauty," Warrick pointed out.  "We can get a shoe size from it—that's something new and different."

"That's true," Sara answered.  She went back to examining Grissom's jacket, focusing on the sleeves now.  She discovered a small, dark string and picked it up in her tweezers.  "Got a wool thread," she announced.  "Same as the others—from a black ski mask."

"Now all we need is the dude who was _wearing that ski mask," Warrick said._

The others silently agreed.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Catherine struggled with helping Grissom through his front door and juggling two bags of groceries.  She had volunteered to pick him up from the hospital when the call came into the lab telling them he was being released.  She had gone to his townhouse earlier to get him some fresh clothes, and now, on the way back there with him, she had stopped to pick up some foods that the doctor said he could have—mostly soft, mushy stuff that he normally wouldn't eat.  Until Grissom's throat was completely healed, he would have to stick to the restricted diet that his doctor had prescribed.

Catherine dropped the bags in the kitchen and helped Grissom into his bedroom.  His injured ribs forced him to walk slowly and somewhat stooped over, so he leaned on Catherine as they made their way to his room.  She lowered him gently to the bed.  "Thanks," he rasped.  He had grown tired of communicating by writing and had begun speaking again before the doctors had actually suggested it.  Although his voice went in and out and had a tendency to squeak like someone with a serious case of laryngitis, he was able to make himself heard and understood.

Catherine assisted him with his jacket.  "Why don't you try a shower?" she suggested, looking him over.  "The doctor said you could get everything wet, right?"

"Yeah, and the cast is waterproof."  He raised his right hand to show her.

"Do you need help with…anything?" she asked, grinning.

"I think I can manage," he answered, with half a grin of his own.

"Okay.  I'll be right out there if you need me."

He nodded and leaned over carefully to take off his shoes, as Catherine walked out, closing the door behind her.

It was tricky doing everything with one hand, but Grissom managed.  He turned on the shower, keeping the water pressure low and the temperature only lukewarm.  He wasn't looking forward to the sharp streams of water hitting his battered body, so he moved in gingerly.  He went through the motions clumsily, but quickly.  As he was attempting to shampoo his hair left-handed, he felt sticky blood residue and tried to wash it out the best he could.  When his ribs began to ache more fiercely, he rinsed off all the soap, cut the water, and carefully stepped out.

A few minutes later, there was a knocking on his bedroom door.  "Are you decent?" Catherine asked through the closed barrier.

"Come on in," he told her.

She opened the door, balancing the large tray she was carrying in her other hand.  She put it down carefully on the far side of the bed.  Clad in his bathrobe, Grissom was currently occupying the near side, propped up comfortably on the pillows.

"I brought you some selections from your 'approved' menu," she told him.  "Applesauce, pudding, and yogurt.  And I have some ice water and your pain medication if you need it."  She moved the glass and the small, amber prescription bottle onto the end table closest to him.  She looked around the neatly-appointed room and gathered up a few more things she thought would be of interest to him, placing them on the bed next to him.  Then she ticked off a list of what she had collected, "The remote, so you can watch the Discovery Channel, a couple of books and the latest forensic journals to keep you occupied, and your spare reading glasses.  This way you don't have to move around too much."  She smiled down at him.  "Do you think you'll need anything else?"

He shook his head.

"Okay.  Then I'll be out in the living room for a while, until I have to go pick up Lindsey."

He grabbed her arm as she turned to go, and she faced him again.  "Thanks, Cath," he said, his voice coming out in a harsh whisper.

"You're welcome.  Try to get some rest."  She reached out and affectionately tousled his hair.  "I'll be right outside."

He nodded his head and gave her a quick grin as she left the room.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Grissom woke up abruptly, gasping, his breath caught in his throat.  He wasn't sure whether he had cried out loud or only in the throes of the nightmarish thrashing in his mind.  He looked around, his heart pounding in his ears, and sat up slowly, wiping cold streams of sweat from his face.

Feeling an uncharacteristic need for human contact and reassurance, he almost called out for Catherine, but he stopped himself.  Then, as he suddenly recalled the vivid dream—not a dream, it was memory, he told himself, a clear vision of what had happened to him in the Miller house—he wanted to call out to Catherine for another reason.  He needed to share with her the new information he had about the case, the possible clues he had finally remembered.

He yelled Catherine's name, loud enough to be heard through the half-closed door, but not loud enough to scare or worry her, he hoped.  There was no answer or sound from the living room.

He recalled all of it now—the struggle with his attacker, the black ski mask and leather gloves he wore, the way the dark man had disarmed him by stepping on his hand, and, most importantly, the fact that the intruder had taken something out of the house, something that had been on the fireplace mantle.  Grissom thought back hard, but he couldn't visualize what the man had taken.  Now that he recollected the details, he realized that he had never actually _seen_ what the attacker had lifted.  He had been face-down on the carpet and groggy when the man had first attempted to grab the item, and then he had been unconscious.  But at least now they knew _where the piece of evidence had come from.  Maybe that would be enough to figure out what was missing and why._

"Cath!" he called again and still got no reply.  _She must have left already,_ he thought.  So he gathered himself enough to get off the bed, and then began the painful process of dressing.  He knew he could just phone over to the police station, but it was the middle of the day and none of his night crew would be there.  If he called their cells he would most likely wake them up.  They had already pulled a double shift and needed to catch some sleep.  So Grissom decided to go down to the lab in person and talk to whoever was there.  He just hoped it wouldn't be Conrad Ecklie, the daytime supervisor.  Grissom didn't think he could stomach Ecklie right now.  It was bad enough trying to deal with him when Grissom _wasn't carrying key pieces of evidence on his body, but now it would be nearly impossible.  Shrugging stiffly into his jacket, Grissom picked up the phone to call himself a cab._

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	5. The Mantle

**A/N:  Here's another chapter.  I hope everyone likes it!  Thanks for the continued support and reviews!**

**Chapter 5:  The Mantle**

Limping down the hallway, Grissom reached the door of his office.  Fumbling with the lock left-handed, he lost his grip on the keys and they clattered to the floor.  Crouching down to get them, he grunted in pain.

Just then, Sara rounded the corner and saw him.  She increased her pace to get to him quickly.  He looked up and noticed her, then grabbed the key ring and stood rapidly—too rapidly for his condition.  He doubled over in agony, wrapping one arm around his ribs.  Sara hurried to him, throwing her shoulder under his free arm to help him keep his balance.  Then they slowly straightened up together.  Grissom was breathing heavily from the strain.  "Easy," she said.  "You all right?"

"Yeah," he responded.

She took the keys from him and opened the door.  "Let's get you in a chair," she said, helping him behind the desk.  She lowered him gently to his seat.  "There you go."  She came around and sat down herself, facing him.  "What are you doing here anyway?"

"I could ask you the same thing.  Don't you ever go home?"

She was surprised at how rough his voice sounded, but she smiled at him, hiding her concern.  "You know I don't.  And what about you?  Aren't you supposed to be resting?"

"Technically I was, but then I remembered something—something important."

She raised an eyebrow.  "About your attacker?  What is it, Gris?"

"I had hoped it would be more, but…it's all I have.  I don't know what the guy got, but he definitely took something from the fireplace mantle."

"The mantle?  Are you sure?"

He met her eyes.  "Completely."  After a beat, he went on, "The problem is, I know we have no 'before' shots of the living room, so we can't see exactly what he took."

Sara stared off to the side for a long moment, something coming into focus in her mind.

Grissom noticed her silence, and he recognized that look.  It was the look of complete and total concentration, blocking out everything and everyone around you.  He knew that he often got that look, too.  It was something he and Sara shared.  So he didn't prompt her, he just waited until she was done processing the thought.

"Hey, Gris," she eventually said, turning toward him with a big smile lighting her face.  "I think we _may_ have a picture of the fireplace mantle in Kimberly Miller's living room after all."

"What do you mean?"

"Follow me and we'll see if I'm right."

"Sara…"

"Come on," she told him, wearing a cryptic smile again.  She took off quickly through the doorway.  She was halfway down the hall before she realized Grissom was not beside her.  She stopped, spun around, and went back to get him.

He was still making his way slowly through his office, almost at the door.

"Sorry," Sara said, popping her head into the room.  "Let me help you."  Draping his arm over her shoulders, she led him out of the office and down the hallway.

As they walked carefully, Grissom leaned forward, keeping his other arm pressed against his side, attempting to lessen the pain radiating from his extremely tender ribs.

Feeling most of his weight distributed over her own shoulders, Sara pointed out, "You know, you really should be in bed."

"Where are we going anyway?" Grissom asked, ignoring her comment and changing the subject.

"The photo lab."

He glanced at her and cocked a confused brow.  "Of course."

"You'll see when we get there."

"I hope so."

They hobbled the rest of the distance down the corridor in silence, finally turning into the photography lab.  Sara cautiously set him on a stool before beginning what she had come for.  "I'll be right back," she told him.  She stepped into the darkroom, which was built into the near wall like a large closet.

She was in there for a few minutes, and Grissom heard some odd sounds—a bunch of bangs, slams, and swishes—emanating from inside.  "Sara?" he called.

She didn't answer right away.  He heard one more hollow thud, and then her voice, loud and angry, "Damn it!"

Before he could ask her what was wrong, she stormed out of the darkroom.  She opened two drawers in the large worktable occupying the center of the room, and then promptly closed them.  Turning slowly, her hands on her hips, she made a full visual sweep of the room.

"What are you looking for?" Grissom croaked, when it appeared she hadn't found it on her own.

"The negatives from my photos of the Miller crime scene."

"Aren't they in the darkroom?  Don't they keep them after processing the prints?"

"Yes," was her curt reply.

"Then what's the problem?"  He looked at her, completely puzzled.

She shook her head, trying to break free of her extreme internal concentration so she could explain to Grissom what she was thinking.  "I don't need the actual negatives…"  She broke off, then began again, attempting to be more lucid, "You know how when you start a roll of film, you have to advance a couple shots before the camera registers it?"

He nodded.

"Well, when I started my roll at the crime scene I took a shot or two at the doorway to move the film along.  Then I took the first photos that counted—the ones of the front door of the vic's house.  I think I may have been aiming into the living room—_toward_ the fireplace—for those initial shots."

The cloudy confusion on Grissom's face had broken and clear understanding now shown through.  "Ah, so you need the end of your negative to see if you took a viable photo."

"Right, but I can't find it," she admitted.  "The negatives in the darkroom start with frame number three—the beginning is cut off and missing."

Grissom swiftly scanned the room.  His attention was immediately drawn to a small wastebasket near the opposite wall.  He pushed off the stool, walked over, and squatted down to investigate the contents of the receptacle.  He quickly realized that was a mistake and that he couldn't get back up.

Noticing his difficulty, Sara came to him.  She grabbed his arm and helped him straighten up.  "You know, you really shouldn't be bending down like that."

"I know," he agreed, reaching for and leaning against the nearby table.

Sara picked up the wastebasket Grissom had been trying to look in, and dumped it onto the surface of the worktable.  It had been filled with discarded negatives, film canisters, poorly-developed prints, and other assorted darkroom detritus.

They both began sorting through the mess, holding any negatives they found up to the light to see if they belonged to Sara's roll of film.  After twenty tedious minutes of searching in silence, Grissom finally spoke, "Got it, I think."

"Let's see," Sara said, taking the small piece of plastic from him.  Allowing the fluorescent brightness to illuminate the negative as she held it to the ceiling, Sara studied the tiny images.  There were two frames—actually one and a half—on the two-inch strip.  They were numbered "1A" and "2A."  1A was the half-frame, completely white, which meant when developed it would just be a big black blur.  Frame 2A was more interesting.  It appeared to be a shot of the far wall of Kimberly Miller's living room, including an unobstructed view of the fireplace mantle and _all_ the objects on it.  "Good eyes, Gris," she said, smiling.  "This is it."

"Do you want me to get a lab tech to develop it for you?"

"Nah, I'll do it myself."  She headed for the darkroom.  "Be out in a few minutes."

"Do you need any help?" he asked before she closed the door.

"No, I've got it."  The latch clicked into place, and the red light above the door came on indicating "do not enter."

Grissom exhaled heavily and lowered himself painfully onto the stool to wait for Sara and her pictures.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Sara and Grissom were in the audio-visual lab with technician Archie Johnson, looking carefully at the likenesses on the large plasma screen.  Sara was standing behind Archie, and Grissom was seated to his right as the trio studied the enlarged, digitized view of Sara's photo.

Archie, an accomplished image manipulator, confidently moved around his mouse and clicked computer keys to adjust the picture.

"Zoom in on the mantle, Archie," Sara instructed.

He did, and then refocused the pixels.  There was a small collection of objects on Kimberly Miller's fireplace mantle, and Grissom compared them to the similar photo of the mantle he had in front of him, which had been taken by Warrick after Grissom's attack.  Using a magnifying scope, and looking at the screen and then back down at the photo several times, Grissom noticed one item that appeared in Sara's image of the mantle but not in Warrick's.  It was what looked like a squat brown statue of some sort.  "Look what's gone missing," Grissom said, passing the picture and scope over to Sara.

She quickly came to the same conclusion as he had.  "He took the statue?  Why would he take the statue?"

"That's what we need to find out.  Can you tell exactly what that is?"  He pointed toward the large screen.

"No," Sara replied.  "Archie, can you get a close-up of that little brown statue?"

"Sure."  He shifted the mouse and pressed some keys.  A clear image of the squat sculpture now took up most of the view screen.  They could all tell now that it was vaguely anthropomorphic in shape, like an idol.

Grissom averted his gaze from the bright screen and pulled off his glasses, sliding them into his shirt pocket.  He felt the beginnings of a headache and his eyes were burning fiercely.

"Looks like it's made of wood, maybe.  A carving of some kind?" Sara asked, thinking out loud.  "Maybe an African artifact or replica?"

"Could be," Archie commented.  He was squinting at the image and running his finger across his chin.  "It looks sort of familiar.  I'm not sure why, but I'll look into it.  I'll check the Internet for a match."

"Thanks, Archie," she said.  Then she looked at Grissom who had been quiet for a few minutes.  He was rubbing his eyes and massaging his forehead with his fingertips.  She stepped behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder.  "Page us if you come up with anything," she told Archie, helping Grissom out of the chair.

Walking with him through the hallway, Sara was concerned.  She knew he really should be in bed, resting, but she also knew he was stubborn and didn't want to be left out of the investigation.  Grissom always felt better when he was working, but if he kept it up much longer, Sara was afraid he might simply collapse from exhaustion.  "Do you want to go back to your office?" she asked.  "Or maybe someplace more comfortable?  You could sack out on the couch in the break room if you want."

"I'm okay, Sara.  Really," he assured her, but he didn't sound very convincing.

"Yeah, I can tell," she replied, gentle sarcasm and genuine worry melding together in her voice.

She helped him back to his office anyway, and sat him down behind the desk.  He fell into the chair heavily, letting out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"I'm gonna get myself a soda," she began.  "Do you want anything?"

He shook his head.

She ignored him.  "I'll get you some cold water.  Be right back."

He sighed, and then flipped open the Miller file which had been waiting on his desk.

Sara returned shortly, holding her can of soda in one hand and a bottle of water for Grissom in the other.  He didn't hear her walk in.  The file folder in front of him was open, but he wasn't looking at the contents.  He was staring off to the side, brow furrowed, obviously deep in thought.

"Grissom?" she intoned gently, trying not to startle him.  "Grissom?"

He slowly turned his head and focused on her.

"Here you go," she said, passing him the water and then sitting in one of the chairs facing his desk.

"Thanks," he replied absently.  He unscrewed the cap and took two long gulps from the bottle.

"So," Sara began when he wasn't forthcoming with his thoughts, "you look like you have something on your mind.  About the case?"

He still seemed distracted, but he met her eyes as he answered, "Yeah, I was thinking we should get that woman back in.  Veronica Wilkinson, I think it was, the dead girl's friend?"

"She said she didn't know anything.  She told Brass they weren't that close, remember?  They just worked together."

"I remember, but I think now we should ask her about that strange little statue.  Maybe she knows something about _that_."

Sara nodded.  "Right.  She must've been to Kim Miller's house at least once before two nights ago.  Maybe that statue means something to her…or meant something to Kimberly."

He mirrored her earlier nod.

"Do you want me to call Brass?  Get Veronica back in here?"

"Would you?"

"Sure.  And then I'll check in with Archie, try to hurry him along."

"Thanks, Sara."

She smiled at him as she left the office, and then nearly bumped into Catherine as she turned back around.

The older woman had been coming down the hall at a good clip, but she stopped after her near collision with Sara.  "Hey, Sara," she offered.  Then she noticed who else was there, sitting behind the desk.  "Grissom!" she said, sounding somewhat surprised and a bit irritated.  "What are you doing here?"

He had been taking another sip of water, and he lowered the plastic bottle to the desk as he registered Catherine's presence.  He sort of felt as though he were doing something wrong and had just been caught, almost like a little boy waiting to see the school principal.  He pushed that uncomfortable feeling away, and tried to muster as much indignation and self-righteousness as he could to cover it up as he replied, "Why does everyone keep asking me that?"  But his appearance and weakened voice made it come out sounding more pathetic than provoked.

"Because you shouldn't be here, Gil," she said, more gently than any of them expected.  She wasn't as angry as she had first seemed; she was alarmed, worried, perhaps a little annoyed that he would risk his health this way—anything but angry.  "You heard what the doctors said…"

"I know, I know," he interrupted, "I need to rest.  It's just a little hard when we're working on a case and _I'm_ the evidence."

Sara was still standing there, so Catherine told Grissom, "We'll talk in a few minutes," and then turned to the other woman, taking her arm and leading her down the corridor.  "What's going on?" she asked Sara.

"He just showed up here a couple of hours ago.  He said he remembered things about his attack, and he needed to tell someone."

Catherine was a little upset with herself for leaving him alone, but she had had no choice.  If she had been there, maybe he wouldn't have come all the way down to the lab.  But it didn't matter now.  "Was anything he came up with helpful?"

"Yeah," Sara said.  "He remembered that whatever the suspect had taken had been on the mantle.  Then _I realized that I may have gotten a photo of the mantle __before Grissom was attacked."_

"You did?"

"Yeah.  It's a long story, but let me show you what we found.  Archie's working on it now."

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

When Catherine went back to Grissom's office, she found him trying to look like he was working.  He would flip through some pages or photos in the folder in front of him, and then shift in his seat, or lean back and try to stretch, or rub his eyes and the bridge of his nose.  His physical discomfort was obvious.

When she sat down in front of him and he looked up at her, she could see the lines of pain etched in his face.  His blue eyes were clouded, almost glazed, and she knew that was the pain penetrating, showing its ugly presence also.  He seemed completely worn out, but he still wanted to be there with his team, in the midst of it all, working on finding his attacker and Kimberly Miller's killer.

"Did you bring any of your medication with you?" she asked him.

He slowly shook his head.  "Puts me to sleep."

"Of course it does, Gil, because you _need…" she trailed off.  He'd heard it enough times, and he knew it was true.  They __all knew it was true.  But they also knew that wouldn't stop him from being here.  "I keep saying these things because I…because we all…"_

"I know, Catherine," he said, his voice low and gentle.  "And I appreciate it, I really do.  But I think you understand that I _have to be here until this is all over."_

"I do understand," she assured him, reaching out and covering his hand with hers.  She ran her thumb over his fingers a few times, then sat back.  She gave up chiding him for the time being, but her nurturing instincts wouldn't be completely quieted.  "All right, so can I help you with anything?"

"Nothing right now," he said.  His soft gaze silently thanked her for getting back to business.  "But if…but _when Archie comes up with something on that statue, I'll need all of you to help track it down.  Did Sara fill you in on that?"_

"Yeah, she did.  She's with Archie now.  He thinks he might have something, but no details yet."

There was a small glint of hope in his eyes now.  "Are Nick and Warrick here yet?"

"I think so.  I thought I saw them in the locker room."

"Great.  Could you ask them to join Sara and Archie on the computer hunt?"

His phone rang before Catherine made it out of the office.  "Grissom," he said into the receiver.

She waited by the door until he finished the call.  All he had uttered during the brief exchange was "Good," and "Thanks, Jim."  She looked at him expectantly as he hung up the phone.

"They have Veronica Wilkinson down in interrogation," he explained.  "I had wanted Jim to bring her back in so we could ask her about the statue.  Maybe it has some meaning to her."

His voice broke with the last word and he tried to clear his throat.  He took another sip of the water.  They both knew that his faint voice and battered appearance would make him a less than efficient interrogator.  They wanted the young woman they spoke to to feel comfortable.  So Catherine volunteered.  "Do you want me to talk to Veronica?"

"I'd appreciate it."  As he stood, his face tightened in pain, but he made it to an upright position.

"Where are you going?"

"I'd like to watch," he replied simply, and she came over to help him make it down to the interrogation rooms.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	6. A Name

**A/N:  Thanks again to everyone who has stuck with this story and reviewed it.  Your kind words are very much appreciated!  The chapter is a little shorter, but I hope you all like it. **

**Chapter 6:  A Name**

Grissom sat in a chair looking through the one-way glass.  Inside the interrogation room, Brass and Catherine were talking to Veronica Wilkinson.  The young, dark-haired woman sat behind a table as she repeated the meager information she had given them two nights ago, "I told you people before, I didn't know Kimberly that well.  We just worked in the same office.  Maybe we went out to lunch once in a while.  That's it."

"Yes, Ms. Wilkinson, we remember that," Jim began, keeping his tone friendly and light.  "But we're wondering if maybe you could tell us a little more about other friends Kimberly might have had, other people she spent time with."

"There's not much to tell.  She was quiet, she kept mostly to herself."

"There must be _someone_," Catherine insisted.  "What about men?  Any special men in her life?"

"No one I know of."

"Did she date?  Did she ever talk about a guy she was seeing?" Catherine pressed.

"No," was the brief reply.

Catherine was getting annoyed at Veronica's seeming lack of cooperation.  Maybe she really _didn't know anything helpful, or maybe they just hadn't asked the right questions yet._

"What about work?" Jim asked.  "Are there any men in your office?"

"Of course," Veronica told them.  "But I don't think Kim was seeing any of them."

"Could you make us a list anyway?" the police captain inquired.  "Just in case."

"Sure."

He passed her paper and a pen, and he and Catherine waited for her to finish writing.  It didn't take long because it ended up being a very short list.  When Veronica handed them back the page, it only contained seven names.

"Thank you, Ms. Wilkinson," Brass said, tucking the list into his jacket pocket.

Catherine slipped two photos out of the file on the table.  "Have you ever been to Kim Miller's house, Ms. Wilkinson?" she asked.  "I mean, before the other night when you…notified the police?"

Grissom sat up a little straighter and focused his attention into the room.  He had been waiting for Catherine to start this line of questioning.

"Yes, I was at Kim's house once before that.  She had a housewarming party a couple of weeks ago."

"Do you remember who else was there?"

She thought back.  "Mostly people from work."

Catherine finally turned the first picture she was holding around and showed Veronica.  "This is a photo of the fireplace mantle in Kimberly's house," she explained.  "Do you see that little statue?  Do you remember anything about it?"  She handed the young woman the other photo, the one of the statue Archie had enlarged.

Veronica studied the images for a long time.  Then she suddenly sat up.  "Yes, I do.  I _do_ remember this statue," she said.  "It was a gift.  Someone gave this to Kim as a housewarming gift.  I remember thinking it was hideous, but Kim seemed to love it."

"Do you remember who gave Kim the statue?" Catherine asked her.  She, Brass, and Grissom outside all held their breath as they awaited Veronica's answer, an answer that could be the key to their case.

"I think so," Veronica began after a long pause.  "It was a guy…  Wait, I just remembered something!  There was one person at Kim's party who wasn't from the office.  None of us had ever met him before.  It was _him who gave Kim that statue, this strange guy."_

"Do you know his name?" Catherine asked, almost afraid of the response.

"It was…"  She searched her memory bank for the elusive piece of information.  "It was…Chuck.  Yeah, that was it.  Kim introduced him as Chuck.  Sorry, I don't know his last name.  Kim never mentioned it."

"So this Chuck bought the statue for Kimberly.  Is that right?" Brass queried.

"Yeah."

"Ms. Wilkinson," Catherine added, "did this statue come in any special packaging?  Was there a bag or a box that indicated where Chuck may have purchased it?"

"No, I didn't see anything."

"Okay.  Can you describe this Chuck?" the CSI inquired.

"Sure.  I only saw him that one time, but…he was tall and thin with brown hair and eyes, probably in his mid-thirties.  He was unshaven, dressed casually—jeans and a baggy shirt, I think."

"Thank you very much, Ms. Wilkinson," Catherine said.

"Is that it?"

"For now, yes," Brass replied.  "We'll call if we need you again.  Thanks for all your help."

"No problem," Veronica offered, as she headed for the door.

Catherine and Brass filed out after her, and went over to Grissom in the observation area.

"Did you hear?" Catherine asked.

"I heard," Grissom replied.  He painfully pulled himself out of the chair.  "Now all we have to do is find this guy named Chuck in a city of two million.  And we don't even know if he's from Vegas."

"Well, I'll go check out the names on this list Veronica gave us," Brass said, walking away.  "Just for fun."

"Maybe…" Catherine began, but she was interrupted by the ringing of Grissom's cell phone.

He opened it and put it to his ear.  "Grissom."  After a few minutes of listening, he folded the phone and turned to Catherine.  "That was Sara.  Archie found something.  Come on."

She took his arm and they returned to the AV lab.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Catherine was looking in the small refrigerator in the break room.  "Hungry?" she asked, turning toward Grissom, who was sitting at the large center table.

He shook his head.

Going back to her search, she said, "Let's see what we've got."  After examining the complete contents of the fridge, she pulled out two containers.  "Yogurt, great."  She grabbed a couple of spoons and handed him one of the yogurts and a utensil.  She also took out two bottles of water.  Sara probably had brought in the yogurts, but the rule of the break room was, if you left something in the refrigerator for more than a day it became communal property.

Grissom didn't seem enthusiastic, but he opened the yogurt, stirred it around, and began eating.  As he had told Catherine, he really wasn't hungry, but he thought he _could_ us whatever energy the food would provide.  It was becoming hard for him to keep his focus; exhaustion was starting to take its toll.

As they ate in silence, Catherine could tell he was fading fast, but fighting it.  "You know, they're gonna call, and they're gonna have a name for us," she said, trying to spark his faith that they would solve this case, and that the whole tiring thing would soon be over.

Sara, Warrick, Nick, and Brass were out in the field, chasing down the leads Archie had come up with.  He had finally identified the strange little statue as a replica of a very old African artifact.  The original carving was in the Metro Art Museum, but copies were sold in several shops throughout Vegas—four to be exact.  So Brass and the other CSIs had each taken one store to check out.  It was easily decided that Grissom should stay behind.  Catherine was chosen to stay at the lab with him, and she had offered no objections.

The others had gone to their respective destinations with subpoenas for the sales records, and hoped to find out who had bought one of the small statues within the last month.  Of course, cash purchases wouldn't give them any names, but they still might be able to get descriptions of the buyers from the sales clerks.  Since Archie had discovered that the price tag on the statue was relatively high, they all hoped that would mean a credit card purchase…and a name.

Grissom pushed his half-finished yogurt away and stood up slowly.  He took a few stooped-over steps and glanced at his watch.  He looked like he wanted to pace impatiently through the entire room, but he didn't have the stamina or ease of movement to be able to.  He stopped at the end of the table, leaning against it with one hand, and then he limped to a nearby cushioned chair, and lowered himself into it, exhaling deeply.  His left hand automatically went to his forehead, as his fingers massaged the area just above his brows.

Catherine went over to him.  "Headache?" she asked, her voice soft.

He looked up at her and nodded.  "Yeah."

"I think I have some Tylenol in my purse," she told him.  She found it, and returned to him with two pills and his bottle of water from the table.  "Sorry it's not something stronger."

"Thanks, Cath," he said, swallowing the capsules.

"Sure."  She sat down again to eat the rest of her yogurt.  Then she decided to finish Grissom's container, too.  The CSIs often didn't have time for mid-shift meals, so they grabbed food whenever they could.

The next time she looked over at Grissom, he had fallen asleep.  He seemed very uncomfortable—sitting mostly upright with his cheek leaning on his left fist—but she let him be, glad for any rest he might get, even if it was just a quick catnap.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

When Grissom's phone chirped, he jerked awake, his arm dropping and his head falling forward.  He blinked and looked around.  It took quite a few rings for him to compose himself and dig the cell out of his jacket pocket.  "Yeah, Grissom," he finally growled into the mouthpiece.

"It's Nick," said the voice on the other end.

"What's up?" Grissom replied, still attempting to wake up.

"We found him, boss," came the enthusiastic response.  "Name and address on a Charles W. Newton, a.k.a. our mysterious 'Chuck.'"

That snapped Grissom to full awareness.  "Excellent, Nicky!  Get Brass to write warrants for this Newton's residence and his DNA.  Give me the address, and Catherine and I will meet you all there."  After he got the needed information from Nick, he closed his phone and turned to Catherine, a satisfied glint in his eye.  "We've got him," was all he said to her.

"Then what are we waiting for?  Let's go."

He managed to get out of the seat on his own, but then Catherine went over to help him make it out to the car.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	7. The Search

**A/N:  This is another short chapter, but I promise the remaining ones will be longer.  I hope you all like it.  I wish you and your families a joyous and peaceful holiday season and a New Year filled with happiness and wonder!  Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!**

**Chapter 7:  The Search**

"Are you sure you want me to come with you?" the young man in the back of the Tahoe asked for the second time.

"Yes, Greg," Grissom assured him again, keeping his growing irritation under control.  Sometimes the eccentric lab tech had a way of pushing his buttons.

"But after last time…"

"Greg, everything was fine last time."

"As long as you're sure."

"I'm sure," Grissom replied.  "We need you there to help collect samples and take them back to the lab as quickly as possible.  We know we have our guy, but we need to evidence to prove it.  I don't want our suspect running scared or having time to come up with a cover story before we confront him with the evidence."  When no more worried inquiries came from behind him, Grissom added, "Do you have gloves this time?"

"Yes, sir.  I'm ready."

"That's good, Greg," the CSI supervisor said, then he turned and shared a purposeful glance with Catherine, who was driving.

They turned one last corner and pulled up behind the rest of their entourage, which was parked in front of Charles Newton's house.

Grissom cautiously climbed out of the SUV, toting his field kit in his left hand.  He met up with Brass and the two of them walked to the front stoop of the neat-looking suburban house.  The rest of the CSIs and Greg, their equipment at the ready, stood close behind them as Brass rang the bell.

After a short delay they heard "Who is it?" from the other side of the door.

"LVPD, Mr. Newton," Brass replied.  "We'd like to ask you a few questions."

The door swung open and they faced a young man with straggly dark hair and dark eyes wearing pajamas and a bathrobe.  It didn't surprise anyone that he also had a small but noticeable bruise on the left side of his jaw.  As his gaze settled on Grissom's face, a brief flicker of recognition and rage shone in his eyes, but was just as quickly quenched.

This didn't escape the notice of the keenly observant CSI supervisor, and one side of his mouth quirked into an almost imperceptible grin before he spoke, "Good evening, Mr. Newton.  I'm Gil Grissom of the Las Vegas Crime Lab, and this is Captain Jim Brass."  They showed their IDs.  "We have warrants to search this house, the property, all the possessions within, and to take a sample of your DNA."

Jim held up the corresponding paperwork, then handed it to Newton.  "So if you'll step outside," he continued, "this nice officer will keep you company while the CSIs do their work."

"Certainly," Newton said as he calmly stepped out into the night air.  He was completely cool and composed now, as he stood next to the uniformed officer who had also accompanied the group to the door.  "What is it that you're looking for, Captain?"  When there was no response to his question, Newton continued to stand there expectantly.

Greg had stayed behind outside, and faced their suspect.  "I need a sample of your DNA, Mr. Newton," the lab tech explained.  "Would you open your mouth please?"

Newton obeyed, and Greg scraped some cells from the inside of his cheek with a sterile swab.  He clicked the protective cover closed over his sample.  "Thank you."

Inside the house, Brass and the CSIs had spread out, trying to cover as much ground as possible.  Grissom was searching the living room, shining his flashlight along furniture and knickknacks, moving slowly when he had to shift his position.

He made it over to the fireplace, which had a safety screen in front of it.  He inhaled deeply, recognizing a very familiar odor.  "Mr. Newton, have you lit a fire in here recently?" he called.

"What's that?" the suspect replied, too far away to have heard Grissom's strained voice.

Jim brought him back into the house, leaving the other officer to stand guard at the open doorway.

"Have you lit a fire here recently?" Grissom repeated.

"Why, yes I have, Mr. Grissom," Newton said innocently.

"How recently?"

"Last night, I believe."

"Wasn't it a little warm for a fire?" Grissom pressed.

"I like the ambience," the dark-haired man replied, smiling mockingly at him.

Nick had just returned to the living room from the kitchen, where he had apparently found nothing useful.

"Nick," Grissom said, calling him over.  When the younger CSI was next to him, he went on, "I need you to check out the ashes in this fireplace and find out if Mr. Newton burned anything besides logs to create his 'ambience.'"

"Sure thing, boss," Nick replied, removing the hearth screen and kneeling down.

Sara walked in from the bedroom in the back of the house.  "Hey, Grissom, check this out," she said.  She held up two plastic evidence bags—one holding a black ski mask, and the other containing a pair of black leather gloves.  She noticed a tiny smile on his face as she added, "Found them in a drawer full of winter clothes and stuff.  He didn't even try to hide them."

"Great, Sara," Grissom commented.  Then he turned back to the house's owner.  "Do you ski, Mr. Newton?"

"I beg your pardon?" Charles replied.

"We found this in one of your drawers."  He held up the plastic-encased ski mask.

"Yes, I do enjoy a good ski trip now and then."

"When would you say was the last time you wore this garment?"

"I haven't gone skiing in over a year, Mr. Grissom," Newton answered smugly.  "I've been too busy with work."

"I see.  And what line of work are you in, Mr. Newton?"

"I own a small delivery service."

Just then, Warrick entered.  He had also been in Newton's bedroom, but he had been checking the closets.  He was carrying three large paper sacks as he reported, "Bagged three pairs of cowboy boots."  He moved closer so that only Grissom could hear him.  "No sign of blood on the soles, though."

"That's fine, Warrick," his supervisor said.  "Give them to Greg.  You, too, Sara—hand off your findings to Greg.  He's going to take everything back and start working on it."

"Got a chunk of something here, Gris," Nick called from the fireplace.

Grissom went over, ignoring his first instinct to squat down next to Nick to see what he was looking at.  Luckily, Nick held up the sooty object in his gloved hand so the other man wouldn't have to bend too far.  Grissom slid on his glasses to get a clearer look at the gray lump.  "Could be a piece of a burned log," he hypothesized.

"Or it could be the remains of a funny-looking little wooden guy, about six inches tall," Nick added.  "I'll collect these ashes, and we can sift them and identify them back at the lab."

Grissom nodded, and then turned as he heard his name being called from the other side of the house.  It was Catherine, from the garage, and he headed out there to meet her.

She was standing next to Charles Newton's van.  The vehicle was formerly white, a bit beat up, with "Newton Deliveries" stenciled across the side.  "Found these in the cab," she told him, holding up a pair of black cowboy boots with a pointed toe.

"That makes four," he said.  "Warrick found some other boots in Newton's closet."

She tilted the footwear up so he could see the soles.  "There are some fibers stuck to the bottom that look like the same color as the vic's carpet, and that stain near the tip could be blood.  I'll bag them and send them off with Greg to confirm."

"Good," he replied, obviously pleased with her find.  "Have you checked in back yet?"

"Nope.  I was waiting for you."

"Let's take a look."  They moved around to the back, and he pulled the latch.  They swung both of the doors open and peered inside.  Grissom shined his small flashlight into the dark recesses of the van.  The bobbing circle of illumination followed the contours of the somewhat fancy items hanging on the two rolling racks located inside.  Grissom's light suddenly hit something that reflected a series of bright sparkles back into his eyes.  He cocked his head to one side at this discovery, and moved in to get a closer look.  "Catherine…" he said.

She came over, adding the glow of her flashlight to his in the rear of the van.  "Looks like our friend Chuck was delivering costumes of some kind."  She paused, trying to see more clearly.  She moved some of the clothes aside with her gloved hand.  "Maybe to a dancing school?" she wondered.  "Do these look like they could be dance recital outfits?"

Grissom had heard all her comments, but his mind was occupied with something else.  "Did I tell you that I found a blue sequin on Kimberly Miller's living room rug?" he asked.

"No, you didn't," she began slowly, getting on his wavelength.  "Do you mean the other night before…the attack?"

"Yeah.  It caught my eye as soon as I walked in."

"A blue sequin?" she repeated.  "Just like the ones on these dresses."

"It links 'Chuck' to the original crime scene," he said.  He walked to the driver side door and opened it up.  His light glinted off a single blue sequin lying near the gas pedal.  Reaching into his kit, he pulled out tweezers and a collection bindle.  Very warily leaning into the cab of the van, he plucked the small shiny circle off the floor and dropped it into the envelope.  He tried to muffle the moan of pain that escaped from him as he stood up again, but Catherine heard.  She didn't mention it as she came over behind him.

"Got a solitary sequin off the van floor," he told her.  "Will you take it out to Greg, along with those boots?"

"Sure," she replied, taking it from him.  "Do you think we need anything else out here?"

"I think we're finished," he announced.  "And so is Chuck Newton."

Catherine watched him intently as they headed back into the house.  It was unusual for Grissom to condemn anyone before the evidence was processed and the science clear.  But, of course, this time was different.  This time Grissom himself had been one of the victims.  He had been on the receiving end of a vicious attack, and now he wanted what all victims want—justice…and maybe vengeance as well.


	8. The Interrogation, Part One

**A/N:  Here we go with another chapter.  I'm sorry to have left this one on a bit of a cliffhanger, but the next chapter will be up very soon.  Enjoy everyone!**

**Chapter 8:  The Interrogation, Part One**

Brass and the other police officer had brought Chuck Newton down to the station.  He sat in the interrogation room, still looking completely collected, as he faced the police captain, Sara, and Catherine.  Grissom was also there, sitting back away from the action, just observing for now.  He was fingering the edges of the thick file folder, which held most of the evidence and photos from the crime scenes.

Greg and Warrick had left Newton's house ahead of the others, taking all the new evidence back to the lab.  They were putting the finishing touches on everything, rushing to complete all the processing.

After Grissom had been reminded of the sequin he had found in the victim's living room, he had asked Nick and Warrick if they had collected it on their sweep the other night.  When Nick admitted that they had not recovered it, Grissom sent him back to the Miller house to check again.  Comparing that sequin to the one he had found in Newton's van would unequivocally link their suspect to the location of the original murder—and Grissom's subsequent attack.

"So, you said you know…knew…Kimberly Miller," Brass was saying to Newton.

"I've already told you that, yes, I knew Kimberly."  Earlier, Newton had had the nerve to feign shock and surprise when Brass had "informed" him that Kim was dead.

"And what was the nature of your relationship?"

A short huff of air was the only indication that Newton was growing impatient with the proceedings.  "As I've said, Kim and I dated for a short while.  We quickly realized we weren't compatible and we mutually ended it."

"And how long has it been since you've seen Ms. Miller?" Catherine inquired.

"As I believe I've already pointed out, I haven't seen Kim in a couple of weeks," he replied, repeating his earlier answers to similar questions.

"And when was the last time you were in her house?" Catherine asked.

"About the same time—two weeks ago or so."

"Were you at the housewarming party she gave?" Sara wanted to know.

Newton seemed surprised they knew about that.  "Yes, I was there."

"Did you bring a gift?" the dark-haired CSI continued.

"Yes."

"What was it?"

There was a slight hesitation before his answer.  "I bought Kim a nice serving tray."

"Was that all?"

He nodded.

Further questions were stopped by a loud knock on the door.  As it opened a crack, Nick stuck his head in and signaled his colleagues to join him out in the corridor.

"Excuse us for a second," Brass said, as they all stepped toward the hall.

Grissom got up and walked out the door as casually as he could, trying not to show their suspect any sign of the pain and fatigue he was feeling.

"Officer…" Brass nodded at the cop who had been positioned right outside the interrogation room, and the uniformed man moved inside to stand in front of the door as Brass closed it behind him.

"Everything checked out," Nick began.  Greg was out there with him, and they both held new photos, the results of the latest evidence processing, and one small paper bag.  "The ashes from the fireplace came up as containing wood, common lacquer, a small trace of gold foil, and adhesive.  Those are the same materials found in the original statue.  We made comparisons using this duplicate we bought."  He pulled the little brown artifact out of the bag to show them all.  It was identical to the statue from the vic's mantle that Sara had unknowingly photographed.

Sara took it and looked at it curiously.  Some small slivers and larger chunks were missing—used by Nick and Greg as test samples.  She flipped it over and noticed a metallic gold sticker on the base of the idol that gave the name and address of the store it had been purchased from.  _So that's where the foil and adhesive residue come in, she realized.  She placed it back into the paper sack and tuned in to what Greg was saying._

"The ski mask and gloves were ripe with DNA," the lab tech explained enthusiastically.  "Inside of the mask—blood and epithelials from our guy.  On the outside, a DNA contribution from you, Grissom.  And the outer surfaces and palms of the gloves had your blood all over them," Greg finished, his excitement waning as he realized how callous he sounded—like he was glad Grissom had been injured.

"Thanks, Greg," Grissom said.  "It's good.  We need the evidence to put Newton away."

Greg smiled a little, relieved that he hadn't offended his supervisor.  "Oh, and of course, Newton's DNA matches the blood Sara found on you in the hospital," he added quickly.

"And get this, boss," Nick said, picking up the narrative, "the fibers on the cowboy boots from the van match the vic's carpet, and the blood on the sole matches _your DNA.  Also, the bottom of the boot fits the shoeprint Sara found on your jacket exactly."  He took a breath before finishing, "And the final nail in Chuck's coffin is that the sequin you found is a perfect ringer for the one from Kim Miller's living room floor.  I went back and finally found it under a chair."  He showed Grissom two enlarged images of identical blue sequins.  "Suspect, victim, crime scene—two times over," he ended with a grin._

"Great job, Nicky!" Grissom told him, a small smile crossing his lips and lighting his tired eyes.  He glanced at Brass and the women.  "Let's go back in there and hear what he has to say."

"Yeah, I've always liked fairy tales," Brass quipped.

Once inside, they took their places, standing and sitting around the table, surrounding their suspect.

"I thought you'd forgotten about me," Newton tossed off nonchalantly.

"Fat chance," Brass threw back.

Catherine got right down to business.  "Do you recognize this piece of art, Mr. Newton?" she held up the close-up photo of the wooden statue.

"No, I don't."

"What about the real thing?" Sara asked, pulling the idol out of the bag.  "Does this ring a bell?"

The suspect's eyes widened, just a touch, when he saw the actual artifact in front of him.  Then he shook his head.  "Still no."

"Really?" Sara said, annoyance rising at the edges of her tone.  "Because we recovered a receipt from your credit card showing a purchase of this exact statue three weeks ago."

For the first time since the whole LVPD entourage had appeared on his doorstep, Newton didn't have a quick, glib response.

"Well?" Brass pushed.

"My card…uh…"

"This _is_ your signature, isn't it, Mr. Newton?"  He slid the photo of the credit card receipt toward the other man.

Newton threw his hands into the air.  "All right!  I bought it—I bought one of those carvings at the Bishop Gallery."

"Good," Brass replied.  "Now we're getting somewhere.  And where is this carving now?"

"I gave it to my mother.  As a gift," he added, his voice rushing out.

Brass just looked at him for a second, and then he said, "Oh, come on now, Chuckie.  We know that isn't true."

"We found remnants of the carving in the ashes of your fireplace," Sara put in matter-of-factly.  "You burned it."

Newton didn't deny it.

"Why'd you burn it, Chuck?" she asked.

When no answer was forthcoming, Sara forced Newton's hand, "Let me tell you why we think you burned it.  You had given it to Kim Miller as a gift.  After you killed her the other night, you came back to get the statue because you knew we could trace it to you.  All we had to do was turn it over and we would know exactly where you purchased it."

"I told you, I haven't seen Kim in two weeks."

Catherine reworked Sara's logic in her head, and thought of a different possible motivation for Newton's actions.  "Or maybe you took back the statue for another reason," she began.  "Was it a messy breakup, Chuck?  Did Kim reject you?  Is that why you were angry enough to strangle her to death the other night?  And then did you go back and collect your precious statue because Kim didn't deserve to have it?  It was expensive, Chuck, we know that.  So maybe you took it back because you hated her, and burned it so you wouldn't have to remember how she treated you?"

Catherine could tell she had hit a nerve with Chuck.  He was breathing rapidly now, fiery color rising to his cheeks.

"I told you, Kim and I broke up and it was mutual," he choked out, his jaw clenching.

Grissom stood, placing his hands on the table and slowly leaning in toward the suspect, as he finally spoke, "Right, Chuck, you and Kimberly broke up—amicably—and you haven't seen her in two weeks.  What about me?  Have you seen me before tonight?"

"Never," Newton whispered menacingly.

"Really?  That's odd, because as you can see I had a little run-in with a suspect the other night.  It was dark, but I could see that he was wearing gloves and a ski mask.  Just like these…"  He pulled out the photos of Newton's apparel.

"Yes, those are mine.  But I told you earlier, Mr. Grissom, I haven't gone skiing in a year or so."

"That may be true, Mr. Newton, but you _were_ wearing these items two nights ago when you strangled Kimberly and then came back and attacked me."

Before the now-agitated Newton could reply, Catherine stepped in to explain Grissom's accusation, "We found your skin cells inside the ski mask, and Grissom's blood all over the gloves."

"Wouldn't you expect to find my skin cells inside a mask I already admitted belongs to me?" Newton wondered, sounding very satisfied with himself, purposely disregarding her comment about the blood.

"Yes we would," Catherine patronized, "but we wouldn't expect _Grissom's_ cells on the outside of the ski mask."  Off the suspect's shocked look, she continued, "They were transferred from his knuckles when Grissom hit you and gave you that bruise on your jaw.  Also transferred was a thread we found on Grissom's hand that matches the exact knit of your ski mask.  And let's not forget your boots, which match other evidence from the crime scene."

Newton quickly realized that denying his assault on Grissom would no longer do any good.  The evidence had given him away.  "Yes, it was me—I attacked him," he admitted to Catherine.  Then he trained steely eyes on Grissom's face.  "He was in my way when I went to Kim's to get the statue.  So was that other policeman outside.  After what she had said to me, I didn't want Kim to have that statue anymore.  I was going to sneak in and steal it like a burglar, so Kim wouldn't know it was me.  That's why I wore the ski mask."

"Why'd you wait so long to take it back, Mr. Newton?" Grissom asked, his voice level.  "You and Kim had broken up two weeks earlier.  Why did you go into her house on that particular night?"

"It was the first time I had a chance."

"I see," Grissom commented.  "And how were you going to get inside?  If the house hadn't been open, how would you have snuck inside?"

"I had a key," Charles admitted.  "When Kim and I were dating, I 'borrowed' her keys once and had a copy made."

"So you're saying," Grissom began, "that you _didn't let yourself into Kimberly Miller's house two nights ago with your 'borrowed' key, go up to her bedroom, confront her, and strangle her?"_

The suspect nodded once, without hesitation.

Grissom narrowed his eyes, but projected composure as he pulled a blank sheet of paper out of the case folder.  "Would you put your hand on this piece of paper, please?  Palm down, fingers spread."

Newton glanced around at them, confused, but followed Grissom's directions.

"Thank you," the CSI supervisor said.  "Sara, would you…?"

"Yeah."  She pulled a felt-tipped pen out of her pocket and traced around Newton's hand and fingers.

The suspect was still staring, perplexed.

"You can lift your hand up now," Sara told him.  She pulled out a tape measure, placing the end on the tip of the outline of Newton's thumb, and extending it straight across the page until it reached the tip of his pinky.  "Twenty centimeters," she noted.

"Twenty," Grissom repeated hoarsely, sounding weaker with each word, his throat beginning to burn again.  "That's interesting.  Do you know why, Mr. Newton?"  He paused, but didn't expect an answer to his obviously rhetorical query.  "See these hand prints you left on my throat?"  He leaned closer and angled his neck so Newton could see the dark purple bruises clearly.  "We measured them, and the span of the finger impressions is twenty centimeters.  We also measured the bruises on Kimberly Miller's neck, and you know what?"

Newton's eyes widened again, but this time fear was apparent on his face.

"That's right," Grissom continued, "the marks on her neck also spanned twenty centimeters.  And we found thread from your ski mask on her body.  You were up there the other night.  You let yourself into her house, you snuck upstairs in the dark, and you killed her."

The suspect remained silent, but his face formed into a frigid façade as he kept glaring at Grissom.

"Tell me something, Chuck," Grissom said.  He had attempted to keep his composure as well as his voice, but both had suddenly eluded him.  His voice had completely broken; all that remained now was a scratchy timbre—low and dangerous.  "Did Kim see you coming, or did you go after her from behind, like you did with me?"

Sara couldn't believe how drained Grissom had become since the beginning of the interrogation; this whole thing was wearing on him terribly.  His voice was down to a rough whisper and he seemed to be struggling to remain upright.  As she studied him worriedly, she thought she saw his arms tremble slightly as he leaned even closer to Newton.  She started to move nearer to him, but then Newton finally spoke up and everyone's attention turned to the suspect.

"I killed her," he said, sounding cold and distant.  "She didn't even know I was there.  It was almost _too_ easy…"  He trailed off, and then when he spoke again, his voice sounded different—satisfied, almost happy.  A perverted grin came to his face as he replayed the events in his mind.  His eyes seemed to come alive with red-tinged fire.  "I walked right in, and she didn't hear.  She was facing the other way, and I grabbed her neck.  I loved how it felt when she stiffened in fear.  But I had to be looking in her eyes when I did it.  I even lifted the ski mask for a few seconds so she could see my face.  She needed to know it was me, and that she got what she deserved."

The others in the room continued to stare at him, the anger on their faces slowly being replaced by disgust and disbelief.

"When we started out, we both knew we were perfect for each other.  We were meant to be together…forever.  I loved Kim and she loved me."  His tone and expression abruptly changed, contorting into a combustive combination of hate and fury.  "But then she broke it off.  She said it didn't 'feel right.'  Can you believe that?  I tried to talk to her, to convince her she was wrong, but she stopped taking my calls, wouldn't answer her door.  So then I realized there was only one thing to do, and I did it.  Afterwards, I just walked right out of there."  He paused and took a breath.  "Later, I remembered the statue.  It was the only thing I had given her that she still had.  I couldn't let her keep it, so I took it back."  His jaw clenched, and his aura became one of pure rage; all semblance of normalcy crumbled away from him like a cracked wall of decaying stone.

"And then you showed up," he hissed at Grissom.  "I wouldn't let you or the cops get their hands on my statue, so I knocked out the guy on the stoop, and then had my little encounter with you."  Newton suddenly stood and faced down his main inquisitor, his eyes burning into Grissom's.  "I should have killed you, too," he spat.  "You were just in my way."

**To Be Continued…**


	9. The Interrogation, Part Two

**A/N:  Here we go with the second half of the last chapter.  This is a direct continuation from chapter 8, with no time lapse, so if you haven't read that one yet, you may need to before checking out this chapter.  I really appreciate the reviews I got asking me to continue this quickly.  It's so nice to know that people are enjoying my work.  I hope this lives up to everyone's expectations or at least gets close ****J  I may not post again before 2004 hits, so I want to wish everyone and their families a happy, healthy, New Year!**

**Chapter 9:  The Interrogation, Part Two**

_Newton suddenly stood and faced down his main inquisitor, his eyes burning into Grissom's.  "I should have killed you, too," he spat.  "You were just in my way."_

Grissom almost couldn't believe what he had just heard—had their suspect actually _threatened _him?  He wasn't sure quite how to react to such hate-filled words.

As he met Chuck's gaze, Grissom was filled with a stormy whirlwind of emotions.  Anger sent adrenaline pumping wildly through his veins, and he could barely restrain himself from reaching out and grabbing the man in front of him.  At the same time, cold revulsion at Newton's flagrant disregard for human life caused Grissom to shudder inwardly.  Everything he was feeling was sapping his meager energy reserves, but he tried not to reveal any of the confusion that was churning inside.

"I could have done it," the suspect continued in a sinister tone.  "It would have been easy.  If I had finished you off, I wouldn't be here now." 

Brass had rushed into action as soon as Newton had risen from the chair.  His hand was firmly on the suspect's shoulder as he said, "Whoa, Chuck.  Have a seat."  Just a small amount of pressure from Brass on Newton's upper body caused him to sit back down without further resistance.  The police captain was surprised at how Chuck's outward demeanor had changed so quickly from antagonistic to nearly docile.  But it was obvious to everyone in the room that the killer's ire was still seething below the surface.

Once Newton was seated again, Grissom, who hadn't even flinched at the sudden aggressive move of the suspect, responded to what Newton had surmised before.  "If you had 'finished me off,'" he rasped, "you would most definitely still be here, Mr. Newton, because my team would have recovered _all the evidence you left behind."  Grissom's voice had become so wispy that if there hadn't been complete silence in the room, his words would have been inaudible.  But they _all_ were able to hear him.  "You were careless, Mr. Newton," he continued, sarcasm dripping off his enunciation of the killer's name.  "Not to mention angry, arrogant, and just plain stupid.  You gave us everything we needed to tie you to the crime scene."_

Grissom swallowed against the raw fire burning in his throat as he tried to coax a few more words from his protesting vocal chords.  "The only thing we were missing was your name, and therefore someone to compare all our findings to.  But you gave that to us when you foolishly went back for the statue.  If you hadn't taken that out of the house, we might never have identified you.  So, really, we should be _thanking you for attacking me when you returned to the scene.  You gave us the final piece of the puzzle."  A tiny, rueful smile played about his lips as he stared at Chuck.  "You might say I've even a bit glad that you came after me, because it just meant that you left us more evidence.  The only revenge I need is the truth."_

The man sitting at the interrogation table said nothing more.  He just glared at Grissom for a long minute, and the cold emptiness in his eyes sent a shiver of fear through the normally unflappable CSI supervisor.  Newton then flicked his hateful gaze around the room at the others.  Brass finally broke the tension when he went to the door and opened it.  "We're ready now, Officer," he told the policeman outside.  "Get him out of here."

The uniformed officer came in and handcuffed Newton, taking him out of the room and down to the holding cell.

Everyone except Grissom watched the murderer disappear down the long hallway.

"How does a crackpot like that go this long without having a record?" Brass wondered aloud.

"Yeah, it sounds like Chuck Newton should have snapped a long time ago," Catherine added.

"Just cause he wasn't in the database doesn't mean he never assaulted someone, or even killed, before," Sara pointed out.  "Maybe he was just never _caught before."_

"Maybe he never left DNA evidence linking him to the crime," Catherine began.  She was going to say more, but she stopped when she looked over at Grissom.

He had finally straightened up from his position leaning on the table, but as he did, the room began to swim and turn fuzzy and blue-gray at the edges of his vision.  He swayed and almost fell, as he stumbled back into the chair that was luckily right behind him.

The other three rushed over, Catherine and Sara appearing almost instantly on either side of him.  "Grissom!" both women cried simultaneously.

His whole body was shaking, but now fear had nothing to do with it; his face was ghastly pale and covered with a sheen of sweat.

"What's wrong?" Catherine asked, alarmed.

He didn't answer at first, he just stared at the opposite wall, his eyes unfocused.  His breathing was shallow and rapid as he struggled to hang onto consciousness.

"What is it?" Sara inquired with quiet concern.

He finally turned and looked at her.  "Dizzy…" he gasped.

"Okay," she said, and sped into action.  She opened the top two buttons on his shirt and loosened the collar.  Then she gently urged him forward and had him lean on the table with his head as far down as it could go.  "Just relax and breathe, Grissom, deep and slow."  She knew that what you should do when someone feels lightheaded is put them in a chair and have them bend forward and put their head between their knees, so that gravity would get the blood flowing back to their brain.  But with Grissom's injured ribs, she knew he would be unable to get into that position.  So having him hang his head low over the table was the most helpful posture she could think of putting him in.  She called over to Brass, "Go get a towel and soak it in cold water, and bring him a cup of water to drink, too."

The police captain hurried out the door.

The remaining three waited in the interrogation room, their swift respiration filling the still air.  Sara slowly rubbed her hand up and down Grissom's heaving back.

"That's it, Gil, hang on," Catherine told him.  "Keep breathing.  You'll be fine."  She ran a hand over his cheek and through his damp hair; although he was sweating profusely, his skin was unnaturally cold.

Grissom stayed silent, staring at the tabletop, focusing his attention on inhaling and exhaling, filling his lungs with as much air as he could in spite of his sharply protesting ribs.  He used the rest of his concentration to control the increasing queasiness that was roiling through his stomach.

Brass returned with what Sara had requested.  He placed the plastic cup filled with water on the table, and handed her the saturated towel.

"Thanks," Sara replied.

"Is he all right?" Brass asked.  "Should we call a doctor or the paramedics or anything?"

"He'll be fine," Sara answered.  She wiped the wet towel over Grissom's face a couple of times, then folded it and placed it on the back of his neck.  "Is that better?" she asked him.

"Yeah," he whispered.  The shocking cold of the cloth had helped him feel more aware.  As he continued breathing deeply, the unsettling sensation of being on the verge of passing out began to slip away.  He eventually got control of his heart rate and trembling body, until all that was left was a slightly nauseous feeling.  He sat up—_very gradually—but didn't attempt to stand quite yet._

"Are you okay?" Catherine asked him.  She noticed that some of his color had begun to return.

"I think so," Grissom replied.

Catherine winced at the hoarse roughness of his voice—he sounded horrible.  His normal rhythmic, soothing tones were now nothing more than painfully scratchy croaks and whispers; every word he uttered must be pure agony.

Sara had been holding the wet towel in place on the back of Grissom's neck, but now she used it to wipe off the sweat that remained on his face.  Then she tossed it onto the table and handed him the cup of water.  "Drink this—_slowly_," she instructed.

He took a sip and swallowed cautiously.  Between the pain in his throat and the nausea he still felt, he wanted to make sure that the water went down and stayed down.  He drank about half the contents of the cup, and then returned it to the table.

They could all tell that Grissom was feeling a little better, but Brass asked out loud what they were all thinking, "Should we maybe take him to get looked at by a doctor, or back to the hospital?"

Sara noticed Grissom's distasteful reaction to Brass's suggestion, so she said, "No, I think he's all right now.  He just needs some rest."

"A _lot_ of rest," Catherine put in, trying to help and lighten the mood a bit.

Grissom nodded in resignation, silently agreeing with the women's hint that he should go home and finally get the respite the doctor had prescribed.

"Ready?" Sara asked him.  "I hate to keep repeating myself, but we're going to do this _slowly_."

Grissom nodded, and then carefully pushed off the table to get himself into an upright position.  His brow furrowed in pain and his face stayed tense, as Catherine and Sara assisted by each taking one of his arms. 

"We're taking him home," Catherine informed Brass.  "Starting now, Grissom is off the clock."

"Are you taking over graveyard?" the police captain asked her.

"For a while, I guess."

Grissom was too exhausted to even mildly protest against Catherine assuming control of his position.

"Okay, until further notice, you're acting supervisor," Brass said.

"If you need me, use the pager," Catherine told him.  "Don't call the cell phones or Grissom's house, all right?  I'll be back for tonight's shift."

"You got it, boss," Brass replied lightly.  Then he turned a bit more serious.  "Take care, Gil."

Grissom gave him a quick wave of thanks, and then Catherine turned her attention back to him.  He had draped his arm around her shoulders as they all stumbled down the corridors of the police station.  On his left, Sara just kept a steady grip on his arm, because his ribs were too tender to even allow him to move that arm away from his side.

The two women got him out to the nearest SUV and helped him up into the back seat.  Sara rode with him in the rear, and Catherine drove.  As the vehicle ran over some bumps on the way out of the parking lot, Grissom grimaced and reached for his left side.

Studying him, Sara asked, "You all right, Gris?"

"Yeah," he whispered tightly.

"Are you sure, cause you're looking a little white again."  She tried to sound like she was half-joking, and flashed him a quick smile to convince him of it.

He took a deep breath before repeating, "Yeah."

They drove the rest of the way in silence as Sara kept a concerned eye on the obviously exhausted and distressed Grissom.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	10. After Effects, Part One

**A/N:  Here's a new chapter—only one more left!  I'm sorry it's so short, but the next and final chapter will be longer.  I just want to thank everyone again for their continued support where this, my first CSI fan fiction, is concerned.  All the reviews are truly appreciated!  Enjoy!**

**Chapter 10:  After Effects, Part One**

When they arrived at Grissom's townhouse, the women got him through the door and took him directly into the bedroom.  After they eased him down, Catherine went to get him some water, leaving Sara to help him take off his jacket and shoes.  When Catherine returned, she shook one of the painkillers out of the prescription bottle on Grissom's nightstand.  She handed it to him with the water and he gulped it down.  Then he attempted to get settled in the bed.  He grimaced as he lay down and shifted around.  With his entire left side on fire with searing pain, it was difficult to get comfortable.  He finally gave up and just remained still on his back.

"Do you need anything else?" Catherine asked.

He shook his head.

"Try to sleep, Gil," she soothed.  "We'll be right outside.  Just call if you need us."

"Thanks," he whispered, and then closed his eyes.

The women went back into the kitchen area and began raiding Grissom's refrigerator and cabinets.  They were planning on making something to eat and settling in for a while.  They had decided that, after what had happened earlier, they didn't want Grissom to wake up alone again.  And now that he was in even worse physical shape, he would need someone there to help take care of him—at least until he was back on his feet.

Catherine began preparing the food, and they made quiet small talk, but Sara's attention kept wandering back to the half-closed door leading to Grissom's bedroom.  They hadn't heard any sound from inside, so they both hoped he was sleeping.  For Sara, though, just hoping wasn't enough—she had to see him for herself.

She drifted over to the door and slipped inside.  She was disturbed when she saw that Grissom did not appear to be resting peacefully.  He wasn't relaxed at all; his eyes were closed, but he face was still completely tense and his brow furrowed.  His head was rocking back and forth on the pillow, and his breathing was uneven and labored.

Sara stepped back into the main part of the house.  Her whole body had become taut as she chewed nervously on her thumbnail.

Catherine noticed right away.  "What's wrong?" she asked.  "Is Gil okay?"

"He's kind of…thrashing around in there.  He can't seem to really rest.  Maybe we should call that doctor who took care of him at the hospital.  What was his name?  Dr. Wright?"

"Is it that bad?"

"He looks like he's…in pain."

"I'm sure he is, Sara, but the medication will help," Catherine began.  "He pushed himself way too hard.  He was supposed to be on bed rest, and he was all over the place, working on the case, interrogating the suspect.  He's just so stubborn.  I mean the man was walking around with two broken ribs.  And did you hear his voice?  I don't know how he kept talking—it must have been excruciating."  She took a calming breath.  "But the case is over now.  It'll just take a little time and a _lot_ of rest, but I know he'll start feeling better."

Sara didn't look convinced, and Catherine was now worried, too, so they both went in to check on him again.  Catherine watched him for a moment.  His head jerked on the pillow as if he were in the grips of an intense nightmare.  Sara was right—he looked almost as agonized as he had earlier, when he had pushed himself so far beyond his body's limits that he had been on the edge of collapse.  Catherine wasn't even sure he was actually asleep, even though his eyes were shut and the powerful painkiller, by all rights, should have knocked him completely out.  If he _was_ sleeping, his slumber was terribly troubled and not at all soothing to his tortured body and mind.  Catherine sat beside him on the bed and touched his arm.  "Gil, it's Catherine.  Can you hear me?"

He didn't respond, but he quieted considerably at the physical contact.  His stricken movements stopped, and he lay still as his body visibly calmed.

Then Catherine ran a hand through his hair several times, trying to soothe away the creases of pain still apparent on his face.  "Shh, it's all right now," she promised.  "It's all right.  We're right here, Gil.  We're with you.  Just relax.  Everything will be fine."  Her soft touch seemed to work, making all his anxiety and anguish melt away like a single snowflake landing on warm skin.

As Catherine carefully got up off the bed, she and Sara studied him again.  He looked like a different person now—relaxed, sleeping deeply and comfortably—and they left his room, happy that he could get the rest he needed and begin to recover from this arduous ordeal.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Hours passed, and Grissom slept on.  Catherine and Sara spent the time doing a variety of things, making sure to keep any noise down so they wouldn't wake him.  Ultimately, several hours before the official start of the night shift, Catherine's pager went off.  She had put it in silent mode, so she felt it rather than heard it.  It was from Brass—a body had been discovered in the parking lot of a restaurant near the Strip, and Catherine had to go to the scene.

As she gathered her things, she asked Sara, "You'll stay with him until the end of shift, right?"

It had already been decided, but Sara nodded in response to reassure Catherine.

"Then I'll come back here, or I'll send one of the guys over.  That way Grissom can be filled in on what the team is doing, and someone will be here with him.  I'm sure Nick and Warrick won't mind helping us keep an eye on him."

"They'd love it," Sara said with a smile.  "They'd eat up the one-on-one attention from Gris—especially Nick."

Catherine grinned back at her, and headed out the door.  "Call me if anything happens with Gil," she said.

"I will."

The first thing that Sara did after the door shut behind her Catherine was go peek through Grissom's bedroom door.  She knew he was sleeping and that he was fine, but she still felt an urge to be physically close to him.  She stood in the doorway and watched him sleep for a long time, her eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light.

He was sprawled out above the covers, fully clothed except for his socks and shoes.  His right arm, complete with cast-encased hand, lay across his chest, which rose and fell along with his rhythmic breathing.  His head was tilted to the left, toward Sara.  With his curly hair tousled and his face relaxed in deep slumber, he seemed even younger than his boyish handsomeness usually made him appear.  He looked so open and vulnerable—a contrast to his common serious and focused work demeanor—that it made Sara feel overwhelmingly protective of him.  She didn't like that someone had hurt him, and she was very happy to be there to watch over him, even though he would never confess to needing any assistance.

She finally pulled herself away from his bedside when she started feeling her own exhaustion creeping up on her.  She had not gotten much sleep since this case had begun either, although she was used to getting by on very little rest.  She went into the living room, curled up on Grissom's small leather couch, and promptly fell asleep.

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	11. After Effects, Part Two

**A/N:  So here it is—the final chapter.  I know I left the end sort of 'open,' so, yes, there may be a sequel some day, but it's not entirely up to me ****J  I need to thank, one more time, all of you who reviewed this story.  Your kind and supportive words stayed with me and inspired me, and still do now.  And to those who reviewed 'Theft of Reason' more than once, that was definitely above and beyond the call of duty and I truly appreciate it.  Thank you for sticking with this story all the way through!  And I also have to offer special thanks, once again, to my good friend and beta, Grissom.  Without her I don't know if I ever would have posted this fic, but I _do know it would never have been as good as it finally turned out.  Enjoy!_**

**Chapter 11:  After Effects, Part Two**

Grissom padded out of the bedroom and walked over to the kitchen.  He noticed Sara's sleeping form, and, smiling to himself, opened the refrigerator, trying to be quiet.  When nothing caught his attention, he closed the door, and then he turned when he heard Sara call him from across the room.

"Grissom!  What are you doing out of bed?"

"I was hungry," he replied, his soft, hoarse voice a contrast to her shocked cries.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to wake you."

"God, Grissom, you sound awful," she told him unnecessarily as she walked over.

"I know."  He coughed and tried to clear his throat, but it didn't help, it only made the pain worse.

"It must hurt like hell."

He nodded.  "It does."

"You probably shouldn't even be talking at all."

He nodded again, agreeing, then added, "But I still need to communicate."

"I know," she said sympathetically.  "Just try to communicate less."

She looked him over.  He was quite disheveled—his face unshaven, his hair mussed, his slept-in clothes extremely wrinkled.  But twelve hours of sleep had seemed to help—at least a small amount.  The dark shadows under his eyes were a bit less noticeable, the lines of pain on his face smoothed somewhat.  "How are you feeling?" she asked softly.  "Any better?"

He closed his eyes, exhaled deeply, and then looked at her.  "A little."

She suddenly recalled why they were standing in front of the refrigerator.  "Oh, you said you were hungry.  What can I get you?"

He shrugged tiredly.

"I know, that list the doctor gave you doesn't sound too appetizing."  She smiled slyly at him.  "If you could eat anything, what would you want right now?"

He thought about it.  "Scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit, I guess," he answered without much enthusiasm.

"Well, eggs are soft enough," she said brightly, but she quickly realized the problem with that logic.  "But you can't have anything hot, so…I could make the eggs and then wait for them to cool…"

He wrinkled up his face at that suggestion.

"Yeah, you're right," she agreed.  "Cold eggs—gross.  What else would you like?"

He just stood there.

She felt bad that he had finally gotten his appetite back, but couldn't even enjoy the foods he really wanted.  "All right," she began.  "Why don't you sit down, and we'll find something."

He stepped over to the table.  She watched him wince and reach for his left side as he lowered himself heavily into one of the chairs.  She knew his ribs must be extremely tender after all the standing and moving around he'd done in the last three days.

Sara opened the refrigerator and looked over the contents, even though Grissom had already checked and found nothing.  Then she began opening and closing cabinets.  Most of the things she found that were soft enough for him to eat were meant to be served hot.  She was about to give up, when something caught her eye.  "Got it," she said, turning and smiling at him.  "Pancakes."

"Pancakes?" Grissom repeated.

"Yeah, I bet you never knew this, but I make a mean pancake, and they're great cold.  We'll let them cool off and put syrup on them.  They'll be nice and mushy."

He considered it, and realized he was actually in the mood for some pancakes—even cold, mushy ones.  "Sounds good," he told her.

"Great.  I'll get it going."  She started gathering the ingredients and mixing them up in a bowl.  After she had poured the first round of batter into the pan, she went back to the refrigerator.  Taking out two small containers of applesauce, she pulled off the tops and handed them to him with a spoon.  "This is about the best I can do for fruit."

He quickly emptied the containers as she continued cooking.

After the pancakes were done, and they were waiting for them to cool, Sara went over and sat down with Grissom.  She had brought over a glass of juice for each of them.  "Apple juice," she explained.  "I know probably want your usual coffee, but you can't have it because it's hot, plus you really don't need caffeine now anyway.  And I thought orange juice might be too acidic for your throat."

"Thanks," he said, taking a sip from the glass.

A few minutes later, there was an unexpected knock on the door.  Sara looked at him, puzzled, and then glanced at her watch.  "That can't be Catherine already," she said.  "Shift only just started."  She went to the door, opened it, and discovered that it _was Catherine, after all.  "Hey," she greeted her colleague._

"Hey."

"What's up?  Shouldn't you be at work?"

"I'm still on the clock.  I just thought I'd stop by and see what's going on."

"Well, we're about to have some cold, soggy pancakes.  Would you like to join us?"

"I think I'll pass," Catherine replied.

"How about some hot ones then?" Sara suggested.  "There's some batter left.  I could make up another batch."

"If it's not too much trouble."

"Not at all.  Our pancakes aren't quite cool enough yet anyway."  She went back to work at the stove, pouring batter onto the hot frying pan.  "You want some juice?" she asked Catherine.

"You can put up a pot of coffee," Grissom said suddenly.  "Just because I can't drink it, doesn't mean you two should suffer.  I'll show you where…"  He started to get up.

"Stay put," Catherine ordered, cutting him off, "I know where everything is."  She gathered what she needed and turned on the coffee pot.

Soon, the warm comforting aromas of rich coffee and sweet pancakes filled the air around the table where they all sat.  "You know, I think we really should be serving you this 'breakfast' in bed, Grissom," Catherine mentioned.

"I needed to get up for a while," he explained.  "I was getting too cramped just lying there."

"Your voice is still pretty beat up, huh?" she said, surprised that he didn't sound any better yet.

He nodded, getting a little tired of everyone pointing out the obvious.

"Is there anything we can do to help?"

"No," he rasped.  "I think it just has to run its course."

"And you need to stop talking so much," Sara told him.  "Otherwise how will your throat ever heal?"

"It's hard when people keep talking to _me.  I don't want to be rude."_

"Should we get out the pad and pen again?" Catherine suggested, teasing.

"Please no," Grissom replied.  "It takes too long left-handed."

"Too bad we don't know sign language," Sara commented.  "Could you still sign with a broken hand, Gris?"

"It would be hard, but I could get across most of what I needed to."

Sara got up and served the food, placing plates in front of each of them.  Grissom tried a forkful.  The pancakes were very good, but it was an odd sensation eating them at such a cold temperature.  "Thank you, Sara.  These are great," he told her.  "But you don't have to eat them cold, too.  Why don't you make yourself some fresh pancakes?"

"Are you kidding?  I love cold pancakes," she assured him.

He raised an eyebrow at her, but let the comment slide by.

They ate in silence for a while, but it felt comfortable—almost like things were back to normal.  Or at least as normal as it was for them to have time to share a meal.  The team enjoyed eating together whenever they could swing it during a shift.  Sometimes it was easier to get together after shift, but that seemed to also happen only rarely.

Eventually, Sara asked, "Whatever happened with that DB tonight?  The one in the parking lot?"

"Oh yeah," Catherine replied.  "Seems like a simple case.  She was shot, there was an eyewitness.  The description sounds like her boyfriend, but he took off.  Brass is tracking him down now."  After a bite of pancakes, she continued, "Your friend, Sheriff Mobley, paid me a visit tonight."

"What did he want this time?" Grissom inquired with irritation.  He had never gotten along with the sheriff.

"He was worried about the case because it happened in daylight in a busy parking lot near the Strip.  He was afraid it would scare off the tourists if we didn't catch the guy immediately."

"Good old, Brian," Grissom said.  "Always worried about how he looks to the tourists."

"What did you say to him?" Sara wondered.

"I told him we have a suspect and we're working on the evidence.  When we have a case ready and get him into custody, I'll let Brian know."

"Catherine, I'm surprised," Grissom commented with a grin.  "I thought you'd be more politic than that—just like you always told me to be."

"Oh, please, Gil.  I can't stand Brian Mobley any more than you can.  But…I guess I'd better get back to the lab anyway.  I've got some evidence that's still being worked on, including a shell and casing in ballistics."  She got up with her plate and mug, rinsed them and put them into the dishwasher.

"Thanks for the pancakes, Sara," she said, coming back to the table.  She stood behind the empty chair next to Grissom so she could gauge his reaction to what she was about to say.  "I heard some news about Chuck Newton back at the police station," she began.

Grissom froze, and Catherine saw a flicker of fear cross his face and fleetingly touch his eyes before he regained his composure.

"What did you hear?" Sara prompted, saving Grissom the words.

"Well, he got himself a high-priced lawyer and they're going to plead insanity."

"Are you kidding?" Sara exclaimed.  "He knew _exactly_ what he was doing."

Grissom had turned completely serious.  "He won't get off," he said, intensity filling his cracking voice.  "What he did to Kim Miller was premeditated.  He planned it out.  He wore the ski mask and gloves to prevent fingerprints and identification.  He may be disturbed enough to commit cold-blooded murder, but he's not the least bit crazy."

"That's right," Catherine agreed.  "It'll never hold up in court.  Our evidence will put Mr. Newton away—for a long time."

Just then came three insistent knocks at the door.  They all exchanged "who can that be now?" glances, and Catherine shrugged, then said, "I'll get it," as she walked over.  She turned the knob, and an energetic Nick and Warrick came bounding in.

"Hey, what's up, boss?" Warrick greeted, patting Grissom on the arm.

"What's going on?  Doesn't anybody work around here?" Grissom said, mock-grumpily.  Truthfully, even though he was glad to see the guys, he was feeling a little crowded.  He wasn't used to having so many people in his house.

"We've got some time on our hands," Warrick explained.

"Yeah, we had an easy case—home burglary.  Already wrapped up.  Catherine didn't have anything else for us.  No mayhem or murders—except for Cath's shooting, of course.  I guess the bad guys heard you're out of commission, Gris, and so they're lying low for now," Nick finished with a big grin.

Grissom looked at him pointedly.  "'Out of commission?'" he repeated.  "What am I, an ancient air craft carrier?"

"Not ancient, boss," Nick replied, teasing, "just a little banged-up."

"Thanks," Grissom grumbled back.

"Well, like I said, I do have to head back to the lab now," Catherine began.  "Do you want to come, Sara?  Or I can drop you off at home so you can get some sleep."

"Thanks, Catherine, but I think I'll stay here a little longer."

"Okay," Catherine responded, then she turned to Nick and Warrick.  "Now you two don't tire him out," she instructed firmly.  "I don't want to be doing his job forever—too much paperwork."

"Sure thing…mom," Nick quipped, knowing he'd pay for that later.

Catherine tossed a look his way, her eyes narrowed.  She leaned over Grissom from behind, hugging him around his shoulders.  Holding her head close to his ear, she said quietly, "You be good.  Let them help you, and be a model patient, okay?"

He turned to glance back at her and nodded, a small smile on his face.

"Bye, everyone," Catherine announced, heading for the door.  "I've got a date with a bullet.  I'll page you if I need you."

They all said goodbye back to her as she left.

"So, you guys want some breakfast?" Sara asked.

"It's the middle of the night," Nick answered.

"So?  Don't you usually eat breakfast in the middle of the night?"

"No, we usually eat _lunch_ in the middle of the night," he corrected, flashing his dimpled grin.

"No thanks, Sara," Warrick put in.  "I'm fine."

"Me, too," Nick added, being serious now.  "But I would like some coffee."

"Help yourselves," she replied.  Turning back around, her eyes found Grissom sitting at the table.  She noticed that he was starting to look tired again, so she began collecting the dishes as she suggested, "Why don't we move this over to the couch?  Go get comfortable in the living room, Grissom.  I've got these."

He got up and made his way to the couch, as Sara moved toward the sink.  As he slumped down, he did feel more comfortable than he had sitting upright at the table.  Nick and Warrick grabbed their coffee and joined him—Warrick taking the spot next to Grissom on the couch and Nick pulling over a chair.

"So, how are you feeling, boss?" Nick asked.  "You look…better."  It was an obvious exaggeration, but a good-natured one.

"I guess I feel…" Grissom began, and then trailed off, blowing out air.  "Tired, mostly.  And my ribs hurt a lot, and my throat now, too, but I guess I'm okay."

Sara had come over and heard him talking.  She knew he _must be really exhausted to speak so frankly to the guys.  Normally, Grissom would have just said, "I'm fine," and not elaborated in any way.  He would have tried to keep his "tough" façade up.  Warrick and Nick knew it wasn't the true Grissom, but they usually played along._

The three younger CSIs exchanged concerned glances, knowing that Grissom had to be totally physically and emotionally drained to be so plain and straightforward.

Although Sara knew Nick and Warrick would enjoy hanging out with Grissom for a long stretch of time, she could tell she would have to kick them out fairly soon and get Grissom to go lie down again.  He was past due for another pain pill anyway, and looking more drawn by the minute.

"So, another case closed, huh, Grissom?" Nick began.  "We've got enough evidence to put that Chuck Newton away forever."

"Yeah, that dude is finished," Warrick commented.

Sara and Grissom's eyes met, information passing silently between them.  Sara nodded and told the guys, "His lawyer is planning on pleading insanity."

"What?!" Nick and Warrick cried instantaneously.

"No way!" Warrick added.

After the initial shock wore off, Nick said logically, "They aren't going to get away with it.  They can't.  We have a ton of evidence against Chuck."  He turned to Grissom and Sara for confirmation.

"We know, Nick," Sara assured him.  "He won't get away with it.  Our evidence will hold up in any court."

"Of course it will," Nick said, trying to reassure himself.

But a veil of nervousness seemed to still hang over the little group in Grissom's living room.  They tried to make small talk for the next few minutes, avoiding any mention of their work or the Chuck Newton case, but a sense of discomfort remained.

Grissom had gotten completely quiet; he was staring downward, his index finger against his lips.  Sara could tell that his attention had turned inward and that he was weighing something in his mind.  Her eyes locked on Grissom, she spoke to the other two CSIs, "Why don't you guys come back later, after shift?"

"Sure," Nick replied.

"See you later, Sara," Warrick said, as he and Nick headed out the door.  As they left, they watched Grissom, but didn't offer him a goodbye because they could tell they would get no response; he was obviously intensely immersed in his thoughts.

The front door closing was the first sound to cause Grissom to look up.  He glanced around, as if waking from a daze, seemingly trying to figure out what had happened to Nick and Warrick.  Feeling Sara's hand on his arm, he moved his gaze to her face.

"Come on," she said gently.  "I think it's time for you to hit the sheets again."

She eased him off the couch and into the bedroom, snagging a cold bottle of water from the fridge on the way.  As he sat up on the bed, she handed him one of his pills.  He washed it down with some of the water, and set the bottle on the night stand.

"Do you want to get _under_ the covers this time?" she asked, smiling.  "Or change out of your clothes?"

"No," he replied, "this is fine."  He slid gingerly onto his back and settled in.

"Sleep tight," she said, and took a step toward the door.

"Sara," he called, his voice a feathery whisper.

She turned and looked at him.

"Would you…"  He squirmed a little and averted his eyes from hers.  "…stay in here until I…"

"Sure," she told him, moving back to his side and sitting on the edge of the bed.  Uncertain if he would allow her to, or want her to, she took his hand.  He didn't resist, so she slid her hand farther into his warm grasp, curling her fingers around his.

Meeting her gaze, he said, "Thanks…for now, for before…for all of it."  His mood turned sheepish, and he looked away again.

"It's okay," she assured him.  "Now go to sleep, Grissom."

He exhaled deeply and closed his eyes.

By asking her to stay, he had let her know that he needed her, and because of that she wanted to offer him as much comfort and protection as she could.  Her fingers longed to brush against the warmth of his face, or get lost in the wavy locks of his hair, or stroke the soft cotton of his sleeve.  But she refrained from giving into these yearnings and just kept a secure grip on his hand.

As Grissom attempted to quiet his racing mind, he couldn't help but think of Chuck Newton and his horrible empty eyes.  The way they bore into him, almost piercing right through him.  He couldn't help but remember Chuck's most haunting words to him: _I should have killed you, too.  An involuntary shudder ran through Grissom's body.  How close had he come to death in that dark living room?  Would something like that happen again at another crime scene?  He had tried not to think about it, but now it seemed to assault all his senses at once.  He couldn't forget, or get past it.  The attack, the many different feelings…  It was the fear that was the most powerful—the fear that lingered now, swarming in and out of the recesses of his consciousness.  And, as he lay there, his mind and body crying out for rest, Sara's comforting presence strongly felt, but not seeming to help, he didn't know if he could ever truly make it go away…_

**FADE OUT**


End file.
